


Every Inch of Stone

by significantowl



Category: British Actor RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: First Time, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Build, mentions of religion/faith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:30:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the video diaries from the first series.  Pierrefonds is full of history, and history is full of very strange things. Trust the very strange Colin Morgan to get thoroughly mixed up in them - and bring Bradley right along with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this a long, long time ago, and so many wonderful people have helped me along the way! Many many thanks to alba17, albymangroves, avidbeader, capricornucopia, cynthia_black, jacketpotato, tempestsarekind, tourdefierce, and zeldaophelia for their feedback and encouragement with various parts of this fic.

“Talking to yourself, Morgan?”

Colin blinks.  Bradley finds it deeply unsatisfying: Colin should jump, he should look startled, he should have the grace to turn red.  Bradley would have done all three of those things, if someone had come upon him in the crypts holding an animated conversation with himself.  But Colin just blinks, one more time, and says, "No."

"It _looked_ an awful lot like talking to yourself."   Bradley doesn't stop walking while he talks, and doesn't stop talking long enough to ponder the wisdom of this course of action.  It's momentum, really; he's spent the better part of the lunch break looking high and low for Colin, and now that Bradley's found him, leaving him in peace isn't an option. "Sounded like it as well.  In fact, the only way I think it would be possible for you to look or sound more like you were talking to yourself would be for you to -" he considers, decides - "look and sound like you were doing it for _longer._ "

"Sorry, I wasn't."  Colin's voice is as blank and expressionless as his face. It's maddening.

They're surrounded by statues, literally at every turn: some standing, some kneeling, some lounging on top of tombs as if chatting with their neighbours, others laid out as if in death.  It's the juxtaposition that gets Bradley, as if some of the dead have decided to get up for a nice look around, and the rest might join in any second.  Just to give things that extra zing, the people in charge at Pierrefonds have kept the room dark, tossed in some lovely crypty lighting effects, plus - apparently they were feeling really inspired on crypt-planning day - a looped track of whispery French voices.

This could be, should be, the punch-line to an excellent Colin-joke; the set-up's bang on.  Colin the Vampire, perhaps, or Colin Sees Dead People.  But the thing is that Bradley's not feeling it, and he always does now. Those moments when once he would've just got bewildered or put off he feels the laugh coming, bubbling deep.

Colin's brushing past Bradley, the shadows sliding over his face as he goes, and it's either follow or stay there with the dead and the voices.

+

They go to work.  Bradley filmed in the courtyard with the second unit all morning, but now he joins Colin on the interior shoot, down in the castle cellars.  It's time to move things up a gear - namely, from _Merlin striding through dim corridors with a torch_ to _Merlin and Arthur striding through dim corridors with a torch_.  Which, Bradley quickly realises, has the potential to take a disturbing turn into _Arthur's hair catching dramatically on fire_ if Bradley doesn't pay particular attention to the angle at which Colin's holding the torch.

It's cold down here, so much so that he's feeling it even through all of Arthur's layers, but Bradley could do without that sort of warming up.

Something else Bradley realises: Colin is not well.  Massively not well.  This must be clear to everyone in the room, but for some reason, everyone is pretending to ignore it.

It's not that Colin's doing bad work; say "Action," and he's on like a light.  But in between takes, he sinks down into himself, his eyes go flat and his expression turns even farther inward than usual.  And he moves so carefully, all these slow conserved movements, as he heads back to his mark.

If Bradley flubs a line, he feels guilty, like he's a bastard prolonging Colin's pain.

_Pretending to ignore it_ means no-one's saying anything sensible like, "Colin, mate, have some paracetamol and a lie-down, we can do with just Bradley and your double for now, yeah?"  Although perhaps they tried something along those lines earlier and got turned down, Bradley doesn't know.  Instead, people are dancing attendance with an offhand air, as if trying to make it appear that they're doing nothing of the sort.  There's herbal tea being offered, and water, and granola-yoghurt-bar things, because whether anyone else knows Colin skipped lunch to lurk about in the crypts or not, Colin always has the look of someone who needs a little protein.  

Bradley wonders how much of what he witnessed there among the statues had to do with Colin being ill, and how much was down to his being _Colin_ (which, in Bradley's head, is rapidly becoming shorthand for _incomprehensibly weird_ ).  Sixty-forty, perhaps, with the balance swinging towards weird.

As time passes and the corridor they're traipsing about in begins to steadily warm up, the issue of the day becomes whether Colin's too hot, too cold, or just right - at one point an A.D. actually helps Colin on with his puffy coat, slipping his arms in like he's five years old.  

And Colin - Colin is either really good at pretending not to notice that everyone's treating him like an eggshell, a precious souffle, a delicately-balanced tiered cake (Bradley is _hungry_ , considering he spent his lunch hour running around looking for Colin, and he's not interested in cardboard yoghurt bars), or he's actually not noticed.

All told, it's giving Bradley a headache.

Later on, Bradley says something to Angel about Colin being a bloody martyr, with his ridiculous commitment to suffering in silence; Angel says something about people suffering around Bradley all the time, and then quite a few more things about the virtues of silence.  Which is, of course, fairly absurd of her, praising silence with _words_.  Bradley tells her so for a while, and the upshot of it all is, by the time he gets back to the hotel and to their floor, Colin's light is out.

Bradley presses his palm to the door for a minute, thinks that, perhaps, there may have been a tiny bit of rightness in one or two of the things Angel had said, and lets him be.

+

Things are bloody weird the next day, and not even due to Colin.

They're filming on the lower stairwell, Bradley climbing slightly ahead of Colin, with Colin a little closer to camera.  It's an over-the-shoulder shot that's meant to catch both of their faces in profile, offer a little glimpse at both of their expressions.  

Except.

They've climbed these stairs Bradley doesn't know how many times now, and it's not working.  Not through any fault of his and Colin's brilliant stair-climbing - they are, by this point, true masters of the art.  It's to do with the lighting, Bradley doesn't know in what way, exactly, and that's the problem, neither does anyone else.

Someone swears.  Not imaginatively, but forcefully, and it's as if they're speaking for the room as a whole.  Jeremy looks up from the screen and says, "Still too dark.  Places -"

And they do it again.  And very soon after that, they do it again.

It's not the camera, and it's not the film.  All that's been switched out, trial-and-errored.  It's not something to do with one particular spot on the staircase, either, because they've tried several.  So now they're just bumping up the lights.  More and more and more wattage, until the big challenge for Bradley becomes not so much looking purposeful and princely as not screwing up his face in a massive squint, and he's seriously considering donning his sunglasses between takes.  

"This is ridiculous," Bradley says to Colin, as they trudge back down the stairs yet again.

"Mm," Colin says, which Bradley takes for considered agreement.

Bradley's had one eye on Colin all morning.  So has everyone else, or at least, they did until things got so mad with the lights.  Colin probably hates it, being so damn private, but if he _weren't_ so private people wouldn't feel the need to conduct careful observations of the rare and reclusive Colin-species to try and work out what the hell's going on with it.

He's seemed well enough thus far (Bradley's not going to use the word _normal_ ).  His face is flushed, but Bradley has a feeling his own is as well, thanks to all the stairs.  And anyway, that's a big change from yesterday, when Colin was so pale as to be almost insubstantial.  His breathing's a little ragged here and there, but again, stairs.

Another big difference from yesterday: Colin's noticed Bradley watching, today.  Hasn't said a word about it, no, but Bradley likes to think he knows when Colin's actively ignoring him.  It's there for the reading - maybe in some tiny print, but it's there - in the corner of Colin's eye.

"Just because a turtle's inside his shell doesn't mean you can't see him," Bradley informs Colin.  Basic biology.

"Bradley James, Turtle Hunter?"  Colin's on the step below him; they're waiting for the off.  His eyes crinkle, and yeah, Bradley thinks, he knows.

"Well," Bradley says, intending to counter with something both witty and intelligent, but then Colin says, "Stay out of oceans," around the same moment that the director says, "Action," and a take is ruined because Bradley's busting up.

He doesn't bother trying to explain that it's not his fault, because what's the point?

There isn't such a thing as a proper break, but during some of the bouts of light-fiddling Bradley and Colin sit in folding chairs at the bottom of the stairwell.  The batteries to Bradley's DS drain early on, in about two minutes flat, very annoying, and Colin keeps dipping in and out of a book, also annoy- well, it has to be very annoying for him, because he can't be getting more than a couple of paragraphs read at a time.   

"Is it me or is this shot not all that important, in the grand scheme of things?  I mean, murderous sorcerer, people dying, and we see Arthur and Merlin go up some stairs.  Gripping stuff."

"Not just you." Colin doesn't look up from his book.  Can't be good on the eyes, the way one minute it's as bright as blazes, and the next it's every bit as dim as you'd expect a staircase in a cellar to be.

"You would think - or I would think, I wouldn't presume to think for you, dear Colin - that someone would put a stop to all this," Bradley waves a hand at the mess of people and equipment, "before it eats our entire day."

Colin looks up then, tilting his head, observing.  "Aye."

"It's a collective loss of perspective and it's collectively _mad_."

Colin gives a quick, tight nod.  And Bradley wonders if the book thing was an act before, because he's got his lips pressed together in a way that suggests he's taking this all more seriously than Bradley is.  Bradley's bored and tired of stairs, but Colin is, Colin is....

"We should -" Bradley begins.   _See if they'll give us a break,_ he's about to say.   _You should be the one to ask,_ he's about to say.

But he doesn't get to, because that's when the glass goes flying.

It's like being a passenger in a car crash.  Bradley sees the blue-white flash and knows it's _wrong_ just an instant before the shattering, before the noise, and then there's not much to do but close his eyes and hope.  

The shards are vivid behind his lids, fast, gleaming and dangerous.  His brain stops short before picturing the blood.

There's a short, awful silence.  Then come French voices and English voices, all loud, Jeremy's the loudest, but the thing Bradley's stuck on is Colin's cold, strong fingers withdrawing from the back of his neck.  He'd been pushing Bradley's head down.

"You're all right."  Colin says it more than asks, like he's got no room for the alternative.

"Yeah.  You?"

Colin nods.  He's already on his feet, heading toward Jeremy.  And Colin does look all right, and there's a massive amount of relief in that, mixed up with some sick guilt because Bradley hadn't been thinking, Bradley hadn't reached out, Bradley hadn't done anything at all....  But it's hard to focus on that, because in all this madness, the thing that's blowing Bradley's mind, the thing that he just can't believe, is what he's seeing on Colin's face.  

Anger.  Hard-eyed, fixed-jawed, it's very like the expression he's seen over and over again on Colin's character, but never on Colin himself.  Very like, but not entirely like, and Bradley finds himself trying to catalogue the differences - there are some, there _are_ , maybe in his eyes?  Or no.  Maybe that flush staining his cheeks, maybe it's a darker red?  

Or.  Maybe it's all in Bradley's head.  Maybe it's in the strange funny fluttering of his pulse - it still hasn't slowed down, since the flash.  Maybe it's just that Bradley still doesn't know what's going to happen next.

Every step Bradley takes is on glass.  People are shaking it off their clothes, brushing it from their hair.  Looking around, there doesn't seem to be a single bulb left intact - the camera wouldn't be telling a lie now, everything really _is_ in shadow - but it also doesn't seem as if anyone's badly hurt.  No-one's shouting for a doctor, not in English, anyway.  And Bradley's getting the feeling that what's going on in French is a whole lot of blaming.  It's very loud, for a start, and involves a great deal of aggressive pointing.

Colin's slipping sideways through the knot of people, murmuring 'sorry' like a particularly polite snake.  Bradley is not good at being a snake.  Bradley's got too much in the way of shoulders.  So he's not close enough to hear what's being said, when Colin gets to Jeremy, but he _is_ close enough to see the equation working itself out on the director's face: glass-filled explosion + Colin Morgan = glass-filled Colin Morgan = dear God, _ambulance_ , ambulance _right now_.

Bradley could script this, he's just lived it himself.  Look, there's the relief, right on cue.  

It's a short conversation, and Bradley can only see the back of Colin's head for most of it.  Then Colin's slipping back out of the crowd, and Bradley tries in his non-snaky way to follow.  He catches Colin up near the dark corridor that leads to the crypts.

"Are we getting a break?  How long?"

"Forty-five minutes."  Colin's expression is smoothed out now, controlled.  Bradley wonders if it's because he let the anger out - hard to imagine that, though, Colin letting go on the director - or he's just remembered how to bury it.

"Because an hour would be just too much?  Chop-chop then Colin, let's be off," Bradley says.  He's not having a fully-formed thought, more like half of one, but it's got something to do with the strangeness of yesterday, and something else to do with -

"You go on."  

\- the thing Colin isn't quite managing to hide because he's busy hiding the anger. Resignation, quiet and strong. Colin doesn't want to stay down here, but for some unfathomable reason he thinks he has to.

Bradley can't help looking at Colin and picturing him as he was the day before, ghost-pale and expressionless, and even though there's no logic to it - Colin's not ill today, and he's not going to get ill just because he goes into the crypts - it's hard to shake the feeling that they're headed down a familiar road.  No.  Bradley has no intention of leaving Colin alone in this cellar.  Maybe not any cellar.  Maybe not ever again.

Bradley throws an arm around Colin's shoulders.  He may not be good at being a snake, but a force of nature, that he can do.  "Not without you, my shining co-star.  There's a flight of stairs between me and my forty-five minutes of freedom and I've been thoroughly conditioned now. I can only climb stairs with you at my side."

Normally, Colin would go along with it.  99% chance.  (There's a reason Bradley can identify "quiet resignation" from a three-word sample, and that reason is familiarity.)  But normality has apparently left the building - castle - and Bradley's half-holding his breath because it's just possible Colin may be about to be _rude_.

He's got a morbid fascination with seeing what that might look like, and zero desire to be on the receiving end.  Kind of the car crash thing all over again.

Colin hasn't said anything, nor made any move.  Just closed his eyes very briefly, and opened them again.

"In fact, do you know how I feel?"  Bradley doesn't go so far as to start walking, just shifts his foot forward some and lets the drag of his arm on Colin's shoulders provide a little gentle encouragement.  "I'm feeling frustrated.  Step-ually frustrated.  We've climbed and climbed and climbed and we haven't reached the top of _anything_."

Bradley realises that while he's trying to catch Colin's eye, Colin's being careful not to let him.  This is not actually a bad sign.  More like an indication that Colin is also being careful not to laugh.

" _Step_ -ually frustrated," Bradley repeats.

A little eye-dart from Colin, and then, straight-faced: "Yearning for completion, are you?"

And, all right, Bradley loses it first, but Colin definitely loses it after, and if there's a little bit of hysteria in their laughter, if the way they lean together is more like holding each other up, nobody mentions it.

+

In delivering his inspirational climbing speech, Bradley had only been thinking as far as flight of stairs in front of them, the one that would take them away from the crypts.  He hadn't actually thought as far as _roof_.  But he should have known: Colin Morgan never did anything by halves.  If Colin decided to climb, then by God, he _climbed_.

Bradley has a bit of a thing for rooftops.  And for views.  Which Colin maybe knows and maybe had taken into consideration, so Bradley's not going to mention that his calves are close to going on strike after their morning's exertion, or how handy it is that this parapet is here to hold him up.  Instead, belatedly, Bradley says, "Sorry, what?"

"Just saying I see why you like it up here."  Colin's squinting against the sun, elbows propped on stone.  

"Yeah," Bradley says.  "Not too bad, is it."  He truly does love it: getting a bird's-eye view of the courtyard, taking in the old stone, mullioned windows, weird, wonderful gargoyles.  Or looking out farther, out over the castle walls, to the lake and the village and the forest beyond.  Definitely a sight for sore eyes today, out here in the open air under real, natural, non-exploding light.  

But not so much for sore, complaining legs.  Bradley's already given them a good mental talking-to, but do they ever listen?  

He props his elbows up beside Colin's.  "What did Jeremy say?"  That's almost but not quite the question he wants answered, but for some reason it's easier to ask than, _What did you say to Jeremy when you were looking all_ Wrath of Colin _?_

"No serious injuries, far as he knew.  Doesn't sound like anyone's needing stitches or anything."

"Are we meant to pick up where we left off, or has sanity come calling?"

Colin grimaces.  "I don't know.  Last I heard they were trying to decide between filming some more in the castle, or going out to the courtyard.  Debating, like."

"Oh, God, let it be the courtyard," Bradley says.  He looks straight down over the edge - it's a dizzying view - checking for signs of a film crew setting up shop.  Nothing yet.

Colin says something, quiet and sincere, in a voice that probably isn't meant for Bradley's ears.  Hard to tell, but it might be _please_.  For the first time, it crosses Bradley's mind that Colin might have been praying when he'd found him yesterday, that Colin might do that sort of thing; Bradley knows what scripted prayer looks like, from funerals and weddings and Easter Sundays, but as far as the spontaneous kind goes, he can't say he has a great deal of experience.  But maybe that had been it: Colin had felt terrible, and could have been asking for strength to get through the day, when here Bradley had come along accusing him of talking to himself.  Which, if Bradley thinks too hard about it, may be what he imagines praying is, but he certainly hadn't been trying to belittle Colin's faith, and he can't think of any way of working out if he had without making it worse.  

They're silent for a long while, looking out across the battlements.  Bradley tracks a bird through the blue sky, wonders what it is.  A crow?  A vulture?  Something more interestingly French?  A few more minutes go by before he realises: he's being watched.  The weight of someone's gaze is settling into his skin, a little bit warm, a little bit itchy.  And since there's just the two of them up here, it has to be Colin's.

Bradley sneaks a look sideways, but Colin's staring out over the battlements as if he'd never even thought of looking anywhere else.

"They captured Joan of Arc the other side of the forest," Colin says, because that's the kind of thing Colin knows and would use as a diversion.  "Near where we're staying.  At Compéigne."

"Somebody's been reading his guidebook."

Colin doesn't quite smile.  "Some people say Merlin did a prophecy about her.  But, you know.  People say he did prophecies about absolutely everything."

"Bradley James' bathwater will be disappointingly cool on the twenty-second of April in the year of our Lord two thousand and eight," Bradley intones.  It's a good prophecy voice, he thinks.  Ringing and all.  Shame Arthur probably won't be giving any.

That does get him a smile, one that makes Colin's cheeks squinch up.  "Exactly, yeah."

They drift back into silence.  Bradley's listening for sounds of equipment being moved, crashes and bangs, anything that might herald outdoor filming.  He hears some distant shouting, raised voices, but that could just as easily be tourists.  It's a little hard to focus, though, because Bradley's also dealing with the fact that the weight is back, that feeling of being watched.  And Colin is apparently a stealth master, because no matter how subtly Bradley moves his head, he can't catch any glimpse of Colin looking his way.  Bradley can't decide what to do.  Acknowledge it, say something?  Ignore it, pretend it's not happening?  That's what Colin would do.

And it hits him: this is probably how Colin's felt all day.  It's even possible that what's going on here is a get-back-at-Bradley manueovre; the more Bradley thinks about it, the more he supposes it probably is, because what other reason would Colin, polite Colin, have for staring?  So he turns, abruptly, pivoting on the balls of his feet. Catches Colin in the act.

The silence takes on a horrible, embarrassed quality.  A flush floods Colin's face, remarkably fast, and his eyes skitter away.  Colin swallows, and Bradley tracks the movement, watching as he readies himself to speak.  "Ehm.  So.  You're definitely all right then?"

"Not a scratch on me."  Bradley holds out his hands to demonstrate, palms up, palms down. It's an invitation for Colin to look his fill, but Colin's too busy poking and prodding the stone wall to take Bradley up on it.

Typical.  Colin Morgan: twitchy in the face of people's concern, up to and including his own.

"What about headache?" Colin asks.  Prod, prod.  "From - from the flash?  Your head feel normal?"

"More than yours ever will," Bradley drawls.  Because all right, maybe that's what _he_ does in the face of concern; makes jokes, tries to make people forget.  He's sorry this time, though, when Colin doesn't rise to the bait.

"I - they're not coming outside, are they.  I need to go."  

Bradley's been expecting at least one escape attempt, and he's on top of it at once.  "They are, I saw them," Bradley lies.  "Heard them as well," he continues.  Which could actually be true - he'd heard _something_ , after all.  "Bet we can see them if we go round the tower," is a massive gamble, but it pays off.  

It's a huge relief, catching sight of the cameramen down in the courtyard; Bradley really hadn't wanted to go back to that lighting hell.  For Colin, it seems even more than that.  He sags a little, literally weak-kneed.

_Why?_ , Bradley wants to say, and _You confuse me, Colin Morgan_ \- it's funny, how he can say that last to anyone, anyplace, any time, except when it seems to matter.


	2. Chapter 2

+

The tapping on the door is light, but it wakes Bradley anyway. He stretches and groans, forces his eyelids open, and... _damn_. Apparently this interruption of his delicious sleep is sort of his own fault. He'd conked out with the lamp and television on, so to the person outside the door, knocking one of the most polite knocks in the history of knocking, it must look as if he hasn't gone to bed yet.

Bradley's groggy brain is fairly certain it knows who that person is. He rolls himself off the bed and staggers half-blindly for the door - those eyelids really are disobedient bastards - and, yes, there's Colin on the other side, in pyjama bottoms and a worn grey tee.

And Colin's ready to bolt. "Sorry, I thought you were up," Colin says, already turning away. "I'll -"

Bradley shoots a hand out, grabbing Colin's elbow. His skin is surprisingly warm; Bradley holds on tight. "Come in, Morgan. I am up."

Colin shakes his head, pointing at Bradley's face. "Pillow creases."

Bradley scrubs at his cheek. "If there _are_ pillow creases, then obviously they're pillow creases belonging to someone who was lying about watching telly while completely awake. Let me demonstrate." Giving Colin a stay-put glare, Bradley goes back to the bed, settling down on the pillows at a clearly perfect angle for television-viewing. Except, ew. There's a bit of drool there. That's not perfect.

Bradley flops back over to face Colin. "Now that we've got that established, watch some telly with me?"

"Yeah, all right." Colin sits on the bed, elbows on his knees, his bare toes curling into the duvet. The television offers up a babble of late night French, and Colin looks in its direction obediently while Bradley studies him. It's half-three in the morning, and while Colin's clearly on edge, the lines of his back tight and stiff, he doesn't seem strung-out or desperate, the way Bradley always feels when he can't fall asleep.

So he'd slept, then, and it wasn't good. 

"I don't know about you, but I'm stalling," Bradley says. "I'm expecting nightmares full of explosions and flying glass as soon as I go to sleep." It's not subtle, but subtle is for the other side of midnight.

Colin doesn't turn his head, but he cuts Bradley a look from under his lashes. _Yeah, I see you lyin',_ Bradley's brain supplies. It always jumps at the chance to try out a Colin impression.

Take two, then: honesty. Bradley takes a breath. "Worst dream I ever had," Bradley says, "my father died." He'd love for that to be enough to get the ball rolling; the ensuing silence quickly makes clear that it's not, so, in for penny, in for a pound, he goes on. "In the dream, I was - I was wrecked. And when I woke up, my face was tight and dry and it hurt. Rather a lot. And I couldn't, I actually tried to, you know, let it out. But I couldn't cr... it wouldn't go away. Just wouldn't work." 

Bradley is not particularly good at telling this story this out loud because he's never felt any need to tell it before. He realises, belatedly, that the way he's done it could point equally towards him having a great relationship with his dad, or a crap one. He doesn't make to clarify. Whatever Colin needs, really.

Colin glances at Bradley, turning towards him a little this time, and makes a small 'that sucks, mate,' sort of noise.

And that's all. Right. Bradley sighs. "Although, maybe that wasn't the worst. There was this other one -" 

But, thank God, Colin interrupts. "I dreamt I was a knight," he says, so low Bradley shifts closer to hear. "In armour, in a battle. And it was horrible, really horrible, and I was killing and I knew it was all wrong - but at the same time, the person I was in the dream looked around and thought, this is for God, this is for my country, this is okay. And I saw all the death and the blood on my sword and I wanted to be sick and I didn't want to run away." Colin's staring at his knees, rocking slightly with his words; Bradley reaches out a hand, fingers splayed, almost places it on Colin's back but then doesn't. Colin might stop talking.

"It wasn't another knight that got me. It was a longsbowsman. He'd run out of arrows, but he had this long stick, whittled down to this sharp, sickening point, and he went straight for my eyes. Gouged them both out. Then when I was just kind of flailing around, all the pain, you can't imagine, he knocked me flat and started stabbing wherever he could reach. All the gaps in the armour. High up on my legs, and under my arms... I was dying in the mud, and I woke up before I died, but not before it hurt."

A shiver is running up and down Bradley's spine, and it won't stop. It's not that he's never thought about the reality of what he plays at every day, but.... "Shit."

"Yeah." Colin's pressing his fingers to his eyes. He seems to realise what he's doing and drops his hands, then lies back on the bed, deliberately opening himself up. Bradley watches, a little bit fascinated, as Colin obviously wills himself to unwind; as his shoulders loosen, as the muscle in his jaw goes slack. 

Bradley reaches over - only because Colin's got his eyes open, he wouldn't do this to him otherwise, wouldn't startle him right now - and thwaps him lightly on the forehead. "Too much imagination, Morgan. That's your problem."

"Yeah," Colin says, looking at the ceiling. "Yeah, maybe that's it."

+

Bradley isn't surprised when he wakes up alone. Lights off, telly off, the duvet folded around him so that he's lying on part of it and wrapped underneath part of it like a Bradley burrito.

He doesn't register that he's hurrying until he nicks himself shaving. He presses a towel to the spot, blotting twice, and starts moving even faster. Teeth get brushed, clothes go on, shoes get tied, all without any dawdling whatsoever, and Bradley makes it down to the car park a good quarter of an hour earlier than he ever has before.

The sun's not been up long. The sky is streaked with violet. It's been bare hours since he and Colin swapped nightmares by telly-light, and now here Colin is, propped against the open door of the van, drinking from a polystyrene cup and looking far more awake than Bradley feels. 

And, more than that, Colin looks happy. He looks okay. It's odd: something inside Bradley's chest loosens, just as something else tightens. He's glad to see Colin truly relaxed this morning, wearing that quiet, curving smile. He would have liked it better if he could feel responsible, if he could have made it happen last night.

Bradley knocks into Colin's shoulder by way of greeting. "Little known fact: there's no point in getting somewhere early if you're not going to snag the best seat."

"Good mornin', Bradley." Colin's voice is low, the roughness of early morning and the depth of his accent coming together in a way that puts Bradley in the mind of a thick, woolly blanket. Bradley rather likes it, although Colin is also demonstrating exactly how much of a menace he can be - had he jostled Bradley back, or called him a tosser, Bradley wouldn't be getting frowned at by three separate crew members right now. As if _Bradley_ is the problem. He'd taken the cup into account when calculating the force of the shoulder-bump, thank you very much. Colin's not covered in cocoa or disgusting herbal tea or whatever it is, now is he? 

Bradley's about to start pointing this out when Colin steps up into the van and slides into the middle seat. Which _is_ the best one, Bradley has strong feelings about that, actually: it's right in the middle of the action, allowing him to hear everyone and be a part of all the most interesting conversations. If there are any. Mornings in the van are usually more about grunts than actual words, but you never know.

Bradley snags Colin by his brown hoodie and pulls him to the very back row.

He ignores the way Colin's face closes off. When Bradley was rushing around up in his room, setting new Bradley speeds for shoe-tying, he hadn't stopped to examine why he was doing it, or decide what he would say to Colin when he saw him. But now Bradley knows, and Colin needn't worry. It's not going to hurt. "I've been thinking," Bradley begins, _sotto voice_. "About Angel. And Angel's shower."

"Erm." Colin's expression doesn't clear. "Possible some thoughts are best kept to yourself?"

Bradley flaps a hand. "About _doing something_ to Angel's shower," he clarifies. "This is an evil genius sort of thought, not a creepy perv sort of thought."

"Hmm," Colin says, and _now_ he's got that barely-suppressed gleam in his eye that Bradley was aiming for. "You're convinced the two are mutually exclusive, then?"

Bradley swats at Colin's knees. "Do you want to hear the plan or not?"

He does, of course. One of the things Bradley likes best about Colin Morgan is the way he appreciates a good plan. And it's quite a good plan - no, make that a truly brilliant plan, considering Bradley's just made it up on the spur of the moment. It's got exactly the right balance of simplicity and finesse, with a nice hint of fiendishness as well.

They discuss the details. They debate. They fall into a tactical hush when Angel climbs into the van, which probably raises her suspicions - it certainly raises her eyebrows - but Bradley doesn't call that a problem. Bradley calls that _skillful foreshadowing_.

It's about twenty minutes' ride from the hotel to the castle, straight through Compéigne Forest. That's twenty minutes of trees, trees, and more trees, and Bradley'd had his fill of their arboreal charms by the second or third time they'd made this trip. Colin apparently hasn't reached his limit yet. He's staring out the window as the trees flash by, their branches leafing out in the bright-pale green of early spring.

They're said to be famous - not individually, tree by tree, but taken as a group. The Armistice was signed somewhere around here after World War I, Bradley knows that much, partly thanks to a long-ago history teacher, but mainly because the road they're on is called la Rue de l'Armistice. Colin, now, he probably knows a lot more. Names, dates, battles, places, whatever he was saying yesterday about Joan of Arc is probably only the tip of a massive historical iceberg.

It's funny. Metaphors that involve deep, dark waters just seem to come to Bradley when he starts considering the contents of Colin's head.

Like right now - Bradley's beginning to realise that the hush is no longer merely strategic on Colin's part, and that his relaxed calm is gone. Bradley's looking at Colin's right hand, where he's gripping his leg just above the knee. His fingers clench tight, strain showing in his knuckles, then loosen, then clench up again.

Bradley imagines five bruises blooming, one at each fingertip. He imagines putting his hand over Colin's, making Colin stop. "Hey," he says, knocking their knees together. "We're not filming on the stairs this morning. Know how I know?"

Colin does a head-tilt. Bradley wonders how instinctual that little maneouvre is; Colin can see him now, sure, fine, but it always makes it impossible for Bradley to see Colin's face full-on. Colin asks, "How do you know?"

"Because I'll bloody well go on strike if we are."

"You wouldn't."

" _You_ wouldn't," Bradley says. 

Colin never would, and Bradley would like to believe that he wouldn't either, to be honest. That's not the sort of person he thinks he is, and it's not the sort of actor he wants to be. Not to mention that the two of them are far too new at this job - and that this job means far too much - for either of them to start tossing any gauntlets around. The trouble is, Bradley also literally has no idea what'll come out of his mouth if the director sends them back to that stairwell. And he doesn't know if it'll be his exasperation talking, or something else, something that appears to be fixated on sparing Colin things.

The latter must be contagious. Gone viral. In the air, in the water, sinking right into the castle's stones. And if Bradley's gone the way of everyone else on set and succumbed, well, he probably never even stood a chance. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

+

Later on that morning, Bradley's on a horse, in the castle courtyard, holding an aluminum sword. They ended up filming outdoors, and it's perfect; Bradley doesn't have to worry about reasons behind this or that, Bradley doesn't have to worry about the effects of cellars and stairwells on Colin's health, mood, and general oddness, Bradley can just do his job. The sun is warm, Colin's standing on the ground below him, a hand on his horse's mane, looking up, and -

Bradley's not egotistical enough to think that he's been colouring Colin's dreams, that it was watching Bradley in action during the day that brought a battle to vivid life for Colin in the night; he also wouldn't like to think he'd caused a nightmare that left Colin looking like that, shaken and tense.

But there's something about thinking that Colin watches him that closely, that maybe, maybe, he shapes Colin's subconscious, that leads Bradley to shiver in the bright sunlight.

+

Truly excellent plans deserve to be documented, so Bradley has his video camera out at lunch, when stage one kicks off. It's up to him to do the filming, because the only one with a chance in hell of pulling off this part of the plan is Colin. Bradley doesn't particularly like this fact, but he's accepted it. 

While Bradley watches from a strategic vantage point on the lawn with the camera perched on his knees, Colin goes up to the window of the catering van and speaks to someone inside. And then, suddenly, with no regard for the fact that _filming is in progress_ , Colin disappears around the side of the truck. 

Bradley waits about ten seconds before hopping up and heading over. There's an open door at the rear of the van, and he peers inside. "Bothering people again, are you, Colin? Don't mind him, he only wants all your twigs."

No response.

It's cramped inside the van, two rows of stainless steel cupboards and cooktops with a narrow walkway in between. Bradley has to crane his neck to try and see around Colin and work out who's in there with him. There's a glimpse of light brown hair wound up into a knot; Bradley runs through all the caterers in his mind and comes up with the name Lianne.

Bradley can think of two options here. One, Lianne hadn't understood a word Colin had said, had no clue what he wanted, and decided the best thing was to just let him come back and get it himself. Two, she'd understood Colin perfectly, decided that what he wanted came with a price, and that her being squished up beside him in tight quarters was it.

Bradley's about to hoist himself up into the truck, because either way it seems like the best thing to do, when Colin says, "Thanks, appreciate it, yeah," and clambers out.

His grin is wide and bright and it's the first thing Bradley zooms in on, before training the camera on the industrial-sized tin of cocoa mix in his hands. "Why Colin," Bradley says, "whatever have you got there?"

Colin turns the canister in his long fingers as if he needs to check the label. "Cocoa, I've got cocoa."

"And what do you like to do with cocoa, Colin?"

"Well, some people have it in milk. But I think it goes great with hot water."

"Indeed, indeed," Bradley says sagely. "And, Colin -" But Bradley sees Angel approaching, and he widens his eyes significantly. Colin gets the idea at once, and hastily shoves the tin in his backpack before turning round to smile at her.

Bradley keeps the camera rolling, zooming in on Angel's face. Her hair is escaping from its bun, and the flyaway curls provide a nice frame for the shot. "Look, Colin, it's Angel. How charming of you to _grace_ us with your presence, _Angel_."

"Yes, hello, Bradley," she says, in that tone of restrained impatience that Bradley always counts as a victory. Maybe he just appreciates a good challenge; the fact that she makes him work for it puts Angel near the top of his list of favourite people to wind up - Colin's ahead of her, of course. She continues, "What are you two doing back here behind the van?"

"Protecting this one's delicate skin from the sun," Bradley replies promptly. "We've been filming outside all morning, so it's important we minimise extraneous exposure."

"Right," Angel says, shooting them a suspicious look, which Bradley faithfully records. "Good thing he's going to be inside with me for the rest of the day, then. We'll be in the corridors below the castle. So no sun, and plenty of gloom. Perfect for him."

Angel's smiling, but she's the only one.

Colin mumbles something unintelligible, and runs away. Literally runs, heading straight for the castle. There's nothing for Bradley to do but stand there, feeling helpless and fucking _lost_ , while he watches Merlin's brown coat shrink in the distance.

"Don't try telling me he's not a weird one," Bradley finally mutters. Angel says, " _Bradley_ ," and pops him on the shoulder, but for once, she doesn't contradict him.

+

There's not a lot of glory in slinking around spying on your friends. Bradley is using James Bond for stealthy inspiration - quiet footsteps, quick looks over his shoulder, careful turns around corners - and like Bond, he does what needs to be done. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't leave Colin alone in the bowels of the castle ever again, and right now he's seeing that promise through.

It's just like last time, except that instead of blundering in and running his gob, Bradley's stood in the doorway, watching. He's in plain sight, if Colin happens to turn around; he feels instinctively that it would be better to be spotted right off than to be caught out hiding later.

Colin's voice is hoarse, and urgent, and there's a kind of leashed determination to it that Bradley recognises from yesterday, just after the glass broke. Bradley would really like to know what the hell Colin's saying, but he can't decipher any of it. He suddenly realises why, from the very beginning, he'd never considered the notion that Colin might simply be running lines: Colin always does Merlin's words in Merlin's accent.

Colin sounds so _tired_.

There's a perfectly lovely chapel upstairs. Bradley can't pretend to understand, but if - _if_ \- this is what Colin praying looks like, why would he tear off for the crypts to do it, when he could have slipped in there?

Colin turns around, and Bradley startles. He'd had a plan - walk forward as if he'd just come in, say, "Hi Colin, all right?" But Colin's eyes are closed, and Bradley freezes to the spot. Colin lifts his hands as if it's an instinct he can't help, raising them to his ears, but then he suddenly seems to get control, balling them into fists that he jams back down at his sides.

Bradley knows he should leave. Get out while the getting's good, while he hasn't been seen and nothing's broken between them. But another, stronger part of him feels he should stay; that above all else, what Colin needs is for someone to stand and bear witness.

Colin stands there, fists tight, body tense, swaying slightly, for what feels like an eternity. Then he turns away, picks up his satchel, and, with a measured slowness, leaves by the far door.

It should be a relief: he never sees Bradley.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to AlbyMangroves and Capriccio ♥

Bradley sits on the edge of his bed, video camera in his hands, flipping the viewfinder open and closed. Open, closed. He'd forgotten to switch the camera off when he'd gone running after Colin. Really. He'd simply forgotten. 

He's told himself this so many times that it's clear he has no powers of hypnotic suggestion. If he did, by now he would have actually made himself believe it. 

He shouldn't watch the video. Shouldn't have made it, shouldn't watch it. And maybe he _wouldn't_ , but what else does he have to do right now?

Angel's shower is safe. Colin's cocoa will never realise its true potential. It's probably in the bottom of Colin's bag right now, and that bag is probably - where? Dropped just inside the door to Colin's room? Tossed down beside the bed? Which, Bradley imagines, Colin is sprawled across. Face down, forehead buried in cool cotton. Or perhaps he's on his back with a pillow over his eyes.

All guesses, because Bradley hasn't seen Colin since the crypts. Angel had waylaid Bradley outside the loos at the end of the day, and kept him talking until the first of the vans headed for the hotel had pulled away - which turned out to be the one Colin was in, because Angel seemed to believe that the last thing anyone who was feeling poorly needed was Bradley James in their vicinity. A crafty one in her own right, that Angel. Misguided, to be sure, but crafty.

Open, closed. Open, closed. Open.

_Play._

+

When the knock comes, Bradley nearly jumps out of his skin. Off-centre, discombobulated, he goes for the door on autopilot.

Colin's out there. It doesn't help.

"Colin," Bradley says. "You -" Bradley presses the video camera to his hip as he reaches past the jumble of images and thoughts in his head for something he can actually say, something that won't wreck everything. "Angel said you had a migraine." 

"Ehm." Colin shrugs. "Painkillers are great?"

"They must not be that good," Bradley says bluntly. Rude, yes, but quite obviously true: Colin looks like he's been run over by a very determined lorry. Bradley doesn't like it, doesn't understand it, and it's starting to make him angry. Bradley may not be able to call Colin out on anything else - his fingers tighten over the camera - but for a moment it feels bloody good to call him on this.

Colin stops short, halfway through the door. Ridiculously, Bradley immediately feels like fixing things and coaxing Colin the rest of the way in. He's nudging the small of Colin's back with his elbow, saying, "I'm sure your drugs are fantastic," right about the same moment Colin says, "We had plans for our Saturday night? And, I. Ah. Was looking forward to them?" 

"Oh." Bradley goes a little warm. "I was as well, but..." _But you, what happened to you, what you did_. "If you're certain."

Bradley's white-knuckling the video camera, holding it hard enough against his side that it hurts. If Colin makes a move towards it, any kind of move at all, Bradley will have to throw it to the floor with enough force to crack the hard disk inside into unusable bits. 

On the camera, there's a mist in that cellar that Bradley hadn't seen with his own eyes. Weird and blueish-white, curling and thick, coming out of the stone walls, coming out of the floor.

And when Colin had lowered his hands, that strange, purposeful gesture, and stood there like a defenceless man....

"I put the cocoa in this," Colin says, pulling a paracetamol bottle out of his back pocket. Bradley doesn't respond right away, and he goes on, awkwardly. "It's, I didn't, it's not like I - I didn't take the whole lot of them earlier, or anything."

"Oh." Bradley rallies. "Good. Good. No stomach pump on the agenda tonight, then."

"No." Colin rubs his thumb against the bottle lid. "So you can stop looking at me like that," he suggests.

"I'll look at you however I like, Morgan," Bradley says, and engages in a some squinty eyebrow work that makes Colin burst out laughing.

Bradley's train of thought hadn't got anywhere near _overdose_. It was too busy barrelling down the rails toward _possession by a demonic mist_ , and since when had he become a person who was capable of thinking things like, "Is my mate possessed?", considering he'd never actually believed in that sort of muck, anyway?

That mist. He could almost convince himself that it was some strange-but-ordinary phenomenon - maybe a freaky cellar mould that was invisible to the naked eye but had hallucinogenic properties for skinny Irishmen: making them talk to it, and run off and visit it, and look like shit when they were done. Hell, it was Colin; believing all that should be a piece of cake.

There was just one thing.

That moment when Colin had forced his hands down to his sides - _opened himself up_ \- the mist had _acted_. Converged on him, surrounding him so completely that for a time he was obscured into nothing but a faded shadow on the lens.

Until the mist had poured into Colin, treating him as its own personal sponge, and Bradley couldn't see it anymore.

+

Gaining access to Angel's hotel room proves remarkably easy. A knock on the door, a bottle of spiced rum held up to the peephole, and that's it - they're in.

She's going to regret being such a lush later. Bradley nearly slips up and tells her so. He's not really on his game right now - it's hard to concentrate on being cunning when his mind's racing around, crashing up against words like "exorcism."

Does he believe in those now? Who knows?

"Gonna go see if Katie's in," Colin says, and heads off down the corridor. Bradley cranes his neck around Angel's door jamb to watch him go. It looks like he's walking in a normal Colin manner - quick strides, shoulders slightly hunched, all things Bradley's seen before - but is he _really_? Bradley realises he's seriously considering the mad, horrifying notion that Colin might not be in complete control of his own limbs.

And if he's not, what the hell is Bradley supposed to do about it?

Speaking of limbs, at the moment one of Bradley's is being horribly abused. Angel's fingernails are digging into Bradley's elbow, and as weapons go, they're sharp enough that they should probably be regulated by the U.N. "Get in here before you embarrass yourself," she says, pulling him away from the door.

Bradley yanks his arm out of her grip. It isn't until that moment, a sick panic flooding through him because he can't see Colin anymore, that Bradley fully understands: he's not going to be able to let Colin out of his sight until this is all sorted, one way or another. 

Angel's eyes have gone wide, and Bradley realises how hard he must have pulled away. He scrambles for cover. "Funny, but _in here_ is exactly where I expect to see you embarrassed, by morning." He waves the bottle of rum in her direction, and Angel rolls her eyes, like she really believes he's talking about alcohol-induced shenanigans.

Amateur.

Bradley should be focusing on that right now. The plan. Their silly, pointless plan. If he hadn't followed Colin down to the crypts, that's what he would be doing; running through it in his mind, taking inventory, making certain all the parts were in place. 

It's what Bradley has to do, and it's who he has to be. A man who didn't follow Colin this afternoon, and who doesn't know any of Colin's secrets. It's bad enough that he spied on Colin, even worse that he filmed it, and if he slips up in front of the girls - goes so far as to spread Colin's secrets around - he can't imagine Colin ever forgiving him.

The thought knots Bradley's stomach up so badly that he has to close his eyes for a second and breathe through it.

So.

A deck of cards, a bottle of rum (no ice, no mixer), plastic cups with the hotel's logo on them, and the cushions off Angel's sofa (she refuses to let him touch the ones on the bed). A paracetamol bottle full of cocoa powder hidden somewhere in the depths of Colin's too-baggy jeans. Those are the resources at hand, not to mention the skill and finesse he and Colin bring to the table, which really goes without saying.

When Colin and Katie come in, Bradley’s relieved to see that Colin’s eyes haven’t gone all freaky, and his head hasn’t started spinning round on his neck - good signs, assuming those things actually happen to possessed people in real life, and _Buffy_ and _The Exorcist_ haven’t been lying to him all along. As everyone settles on the floor between Angel's sofa and her bed, Bradley experiments with the relative comfort of pillow-under-the-arse versus pillow-behind-the-back. Colin goes for arse, of course, bony as he is, and engages in some odd wriggling that Bradley finally recognises as an attempt to shift the bottle in his pocket before sitting on it hurts anything important. He shoots Bradley a grin, part sheepish, part conspiratorial; Bradley finds it impossible to return, not when it highlights the tight lines of pain around Colin's eyes.

Why is it that when it comes to developing complicated, intricate plans for pranking co-workers, Bradley's aces, but when it comes to thinking up ways to save them, he's useless?

"I'll deal," Katie says. She shuffles the cards smoothly in one hand like she's working a table in Monte Carlo - it's impressive enough to distract Bradley, which is saying something - and tosses down a bag of wine gums with the other. "For the pot. What did you lot bring?"

The answer to that is "nothing," because Katie is apparently the only card shark amongst them, but Angel has a hunt round her room and comes up with a tin of mints (which doesn't please Katie overmuch) and another bag of wine gums (which does). Katie asks Colin to cut the deck, and Bradley's instinctively drawn to watching his hands. There's a slight tremor in his fingers as they arch over the cards.

Bradley takes a swig of rum, letting the burn in his throat prevent him from saying a word.

It's not a foolproof strategy, using alcohol to keep his mouth shut, but as the night wears on Bradley keeps coming back to it. Colin rubs hard at the bridge of his nose, and Bradley drinks; Colin effortlessly out-bluffs them all to win yet another hand of five-card draw, and Bradley drinks.

For Angel and Katie the results of drinking straight liquor are far more traditional. Embarrassing stories start coming to light by the time the bottle is half-empty; Bradley files away the knowledge that the words "revolving door" can make Angel cover her face in shame, and earns a new and healthy respect for Katie's fierce silver belt buckle (apparently a bloke actually lost an entire fingernail to it once). 

Nothing from Colin. Well. No surprise there.

Normally Bradley would poke at him a bit, try to make him join in. It feels dangerous tonight, with the weight of all the questions Bradley can't ask so heavy on his tongue, but it also feels _good_. Bradley wants so much to make Colin speak, to say just one thing that he never intended to say, to make him tell a truth. "No story for us, Colin? Not a one? Can't think of anything to tell us that we don't already know?"

Angel laughs. "It's not Colin's job to entertain you, Bradley."

"I beg to differ, Coulby. He's paid to entertain millions, and I am unquestionably one in a million."

Katie's joined in the laughter, and Colin's smiling. Good. That means he got the tone right.

Colin says, "No, yeah, I sicked up on a kerb once? It wasn't fun." He looks at Bradley through his lashes as he says it, like it's something only for Bradley. Usually a warm, silly little pride would spread through Bradley at that, but not tonight.

Tonight a slender two sentences are nothing like enough.

Bradley knocks back enough rum to chase away whatever unwise words threaten to come out of his mouth. When he lowers the cup, Colin's still looking at him, brow creased and confused. Bradley tries to smile. He knows it's a sick, wobbly thing.

How much longer will he be able to afford the luxury of worrying about Colin's forgiveness? Either something's wrong with Bradley's camera, or something's very, very wrong in the castle, and if Colin gets hurt while Bradley sits around and worries about protecting himself....

Yesterday Bradley saw a thousand shards of glass slice through the air. Yesterday he saw what true, unfiltered anger looks like on Colin's face.

He doesn't want to have to choose between the two. He doesn't want to see either ever again.

"Wait, wait, wait. Hold everything." Katie's voice jolts Bradley back to the present. Her eyes have gone hard and steely, and she points an accusing finger at Colin. "What you just said to her -" Katie's finger tracks over to Angel - "Say it to me."

"Erm. I don't eat them?" Colin shrugs apologetically, like he's not quite sure what he's done wrong, but he's very sorry to be so much trouble. Bradley glances at the teetering pile of candies in front of Colin and has a pretty good idea what the problem is.

"You took all my wine gums," Katie says slowly, dangerously, "and you aren't even going to eat them?"

"You can have them back?" Colin offers, voice petering out as he seems to realise that charity is not going to make Katie any happier.

"He didn't _take_ them, he won them," Angel points out. "And mine as well."

Katie's eyes go steelier. It's a bit like being in an episode of _The Twilight Zone_ , seeing someone - particularly one of the girls - look at Colin like that. It's fascinating, and it gives Bradley a quiet little thrill.

"Ah, but you forgot the part where she didn't expect to lose," Bradley says. He turns to Katie. This is what Bradley James would do right now, take the piss, and if it means making Katie just a bit more annoyed at Colin, and if means he gets to say things like this, well: "I know you think you're good, McGrath, but if you liked them, you should've known better than to risk them in a game with this one." Bradley jerks his chin in Colin's direction. "A poker face is the only bloody sort of face he has."

"Colin's face is lovely," Katie says, voice softening - _of course_ , it's out of the question that anyone be cross or frustrated with Colin for more than two minutes, what was Bradley thinking? She continues, "We're switching to cash. Euros out, everyone."

Bradley snorts. "You think you can take him? Please. He's far too good at hiding himself for that."

Silence. 

Bradley can hear his words echoing, and what's worse, the way he'd said them, harsh and bitter and honest. Bradley crosses the line into "rude" all the time, but there's always a laugh in it somewhere, and it's always all right.

No laugh in there this time. Nowhere at all.

Bradley should be trying to smooth it over, but the seconds are ticking by, and he can't. That's _truth_ hanging out there. He wants to shake Colin - shake them all - and say, "Can't you see? Can't you see how wrong this all is?"

"I think what Bradley just said is that he wants to get to know you better, Colin," Katie says, giggling. Angel joins in. Bradley's torn between being glad the moment's broken, and wanting to punch a wall.

Colin stands up. Bradley has a second or two of panic when he thinks Colin's going to leave - go away, angry, to somewhere Bradley can't keep an eye on him - but Colin just mumbles his way through asking to use Angel's loo, and Angel waves him on.

To Bradley's surprise, Angel and Katie don't try to tear him apart the moment Colin's gone. Instead, Angel says quietly to Katie, "Wine gums have gelatin in them. I'm sure that's why he doesn't eat them, they're not properly vegetarian."

"Hm. Well. Gotta admire a bloke with principles." Katie throws a glance back over her shoulder, clearly checking that the door to the loo's still closed, then reaches over to Colin’s side of the circle.

It’s unsettling seeing the girls back off, like they’ve realised whatever’s going on between himself and Colin isn’t their ground to tread. Bradley starts talking to keep from thinking about it too much. "The girl who's _looking at his cards_ is talking about principles?"

"Should've taken them with him, shouldn't he?" Katie says, thumbing through the cards. "You'd think he'd protect himself a little better."

"He's letting her win them back," Angel mouths at Bradley. Bradley nods agreement, because of course it's true. Colin Morgan, playing his own game, making things right in his own way, whether anyone else likes it or not.

_You'd think he'd protect himself a little better,_ Bradley thinks, and can't stop a shiver.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to Alby Mangroves and Capriccio! ♥

It was always going to end with Angel pounding like mad on the wall between their rooms, but the inevitability doesn’t help much. Bradley jerks awake when the unholy racket starts, reaching automatically for Colin. Who knows what it sounds like in his dreams?

"That'll be Angel, taking her shower," he says quietly, his hand finding Colin’s sharp hipbone. It's the same soothing, matter-of-fact voice he tries on his horse when it gets twitchy. It’s never quite worked on the horse, but when Bradley slides his hand up to the dip in Colin’s side, checking, Colin's breathing is calm and even. Which just goes to prove that Bradley can’t be held responsible for that mad animal’s behaviour. Clearly, there’s nothing wrong with his soothing skills.

Colin makes a noise into his pillow that’s somewhere between a snuffle, a laugh, and a groan. He’s got a knee pressed up against Bradley’s calf, and as he stretches, his shin slips down the back of Bradley's leg.

“You can hide if you want,” Bradley says. “She doesn’t have to find you. Here -” He sits up, the part of his mind convinced of the wisdom of putting a little space between him and Colin’s warmth shouting down other, less logical parts. He starts mounding pillows and the duvet on top of Colin.

Colin unearths himself with some flailing that nearly puts Bradley’s eye out. "And miss all the fun? Never."

The pounding has stopped, and Bradley knows that means Angel’s regrouping. He drags himself out of bed. It would be nice if his morning wood was a little less persistent, but at least he'd slept in his jeans. There would be no hiding it if he'd switched to sleep bottoms.

Bradley blames everything about Colin Morgan for the fact that he’s well into sneaking a glance at the front of Colin’s jeans before he realises and stops himself. This is what happens when a person is so close-lipped that other people are forced to take up the habit of studying their body language in minute detail. Boundaries become afterthoughts.

Apparently there’s nothing about Colin Morgan that Bradley doesn’t want to know.

Colin’s sock feet make soft sounds on the carpet as they sneak their way towards the door. He and Colin should be absolutely still and silent if they’re to do this properly, but Colin lets a little giggly snort escape, and Bradley has to elbow him before gripping the doorknob. He’s poised and ready, and - yes, there it is, the sound of Angel’s door slamming. Glancing back, he sees that Colin’s got a knuckle pressed to his mouth, bottling his laughter. "Better," Bradley mouths.

Knock, knock, kn -

Bradley times throwing open the door perfectly, so that Angel's left with her fist hanging in mid-air. He schools his expression. "Good morning, Angel. May we help you?"

It's delicious, the surprise on her face. Her eyes are wide and genuinely shocked, her mouth has fallen open, and she's tilting her head, clearly searching for words. Add to that her frightening morning hair and the gigantic fluffy purple robe she's got wrapped around herself, clenched tight at the neck, and it's a sight worthy of film.

If the thought of his camera didn’t make Bradley feel ill.

"You certainly may," Angel finally says. Her eyes keep darting between Bradley and Colin, who’s hovering at his shoulder. "Bradley, you get to be the one to explain the mess in my bath to the cleaners. Colin -"

"Is it bad?" Bradley interrupts. "Is it really, really, bad? Does it look like someone murdered a chocolate Santa?"

“There's brown muck _everywhere_ ," Angel says, glaring remarkably fiercely for someone wearing the fluffiest robe on the planet. "What is it, anyway?"

"It’s just cocoa." Bradley sniffs. "What's the matter? Don't you like chocolate? We thought you did. And we thought, what’s better than the unexpected gift of chocolate?"

Colin coughs into his hand. "Except you wanted to use beef bouillon cubes.”

"Oh God," Angel says. “Oh _God_. That would've smelt horrible."

“And you’re disappointed she wasn’t standing in the shower when she turned the tap,” Bradley says to Colin. “He is, look at him,” Bradley’s forced to insist, since Angel’s only reaction is to narrow her eyes at him, not Colin. 

“If any of that had made it into my hair, you wouldn’t be breathing right now, Bradley James," Angel says. The look she gives Bradley promises revenge, and even as Bradley resolves to never, ever allow her to cross his threshold again for the safety of all he holds dear, he’s secretly thrilled. If Angel’s going to invest time and effort into revenge, then they got her. They well and truly got her.

“So Bradley, you’re going to wait out here and talk to the cleaners, and Colin, you get to go wake Katie up on her day off and tell her why I need to use her shower."

Giving Angel a goofy salute, Colin slips around them both. Angel watches as he heads down the corridor, then turns back to Bradley, arms folded.

A spark of annoyance flares in Bradley, kindled by fear. Because no-one’s looking beyond the surface when they look at Colin, no-one besides Bradley, and there’s so much that needs to be seen. So much. "You know he's the one who did it, right? Remember? He went in your loo, closed the door...."

"I know _you_ are an agent of corruption," Angel says.

"Ha. That just goes to show how little you know.” Bradley has to admit he rather likes the sound of "Agent of Corruption," though. The next time he needs a code name, that’ll be the one.

Angel shoots a glance along the corridor, where Colin’s still knocking on Katie’s door - the girl must sleep with earplugs in. “I don’t know a lot of things,” she says, looking back at Bradley, eyebrows raised pointedly raised, “but I’m learning.” 

Bradley feels himself flush. But… whatever Angel’s thinking, he’s not sure he minds her thinking it. And he can’t stop thinking about how Colin must not mind either, or he’d be hiding under those covers right now, or stayed in his own room last night in the first place. He had to have known what Angel would think, and he’d been okay with it.

“You and me both,” Bradley says, and despite everything he’s worried about, can’t keep from smiling.

+

The room is full of people, and Colin's wound tighter than a spring.

Anthony, Richard, Katie, Angel. A guest actress - Michelle Ryan. Twenty or more supporting artists. The director, three A.D.s, principal photography, sound, makeup, and set crew. All packed into the guard room below the castle, which has been turned into a banqueting hall for the day. It’s not a small room, but it’s nowhere near as large as it will be made to appear on television, and with all those people and the equipment that comes with them, there’s not a lot of space to breathe.

Bradley’s sticking as close to Colin as he can. _Hovering_ is Angel’s word for it, and _smothering_ is Katie’s, but the semantics are unimportant. Colin’s shoulders are bent, and he keeps rubbing a hand over his elbow, sometimes so furiously that Bradley half expects him to wear a hole through the sleeve of his costume.

“This room’s from the 19th century,” Colin suddenly says, the first time he’s spoken in over a quarter of an hour. “Part of the reconstruction of the castle after it was destroyed. But the statues, they’re all archaeological finds. Originals.”

It takes Bradley a second to catch on, because there aren’t any statues visible in the room at the moment. But that's because they’ve been hidden away from the cameras by some faux-medieval drapery and Pendragon banners. “What did you do, memorise the guidebook?”

Colin half-raises a shoulder, which Bradley takes to mean, _Of course._

Around them, it’s all noise. Crew members discussing camera positions, A.D.s calling out instructions to extras, Katie laughing at something Tony's just said, Helen from costume talking with Angel while she re-pins her hair. But between Bradley and Colin, silence is threatening to grow again, and Bradley decides it’s past time he stamped that out altogether. “There’s a statue of me here, you know,” he says.

“Yeah?” Colin slides his eyes over, eyebrow quirked. “Of that valiant figure from history, Bradley James?”

“That’s Mr. Bradley Valiant James to you,” Bradley says, just to hear Colin snort.

There really is a statue of Arthur, though. Bradley had gone round the castle one day trying to spot all the representations of King Arthur that he could - gleefully informing Colin that there was an entire tower called after Arthur, then inquiring as to what was named for Merlin, exactly? He’d seen the statues in the guard room that day. Easy to believe that they’ve been at Pierrefonds from the beginning, because they’re incomplete, mutilated. There’s one with its legs missing, another with a slice taken out of its stomach, and, creepiest of all, one that is only a torso pinned to the wall.

He’s glad Colin doesn’t have to look at any of that right now. Sure, it’s only pale broken stone, but Bradley thinks Colin’s nightmares stay with him enough as it is; he doesn’t need a reminder of what it looks like to be carved up and torn apart. Doesn’t need to imagine blood trickling down the wall behind the curtain, congealing in a dark, sick pool on the floor. 

Maybe Bradley doesn’t need that either. He shakes his head, pushing the image away.

Before Bradley can take another stab at conversation, an A.D. turns up to banish him back to his mark. The Pendragons are meant to be on the other side of the room, in front of the fireplace, flanked by those massive banners. “Suppose I’ve been consorting with the servants too long,” Bradley jokes, but doesn’t get much in return for his trouble. The A.D.’s expression makes quite clear that she doesn’t have time for humouring actors who think they’re funny, and Colin's back to worrying that elbow again, fingers restless and face tight.

Without giving it any real thought, Bradley skims his fingers over Colin’s as he turns to go.

Colin’s hand drops immediately - Bradley feels it - but he’s being shepherded away, and he can’t see Colin’s face. He’s not sure if he’s ever touched Colin like that in public before, no silliness, no artifice, just care. It's not until he's all the way across the room, pulse grown a little too loud for comfort, that he’s able to tell that Colin is smiling.

It feels somewhat like a touch as well.

The afternoon before, after Colin had coated himself in sunblock for continuity’s sake, they’d spent hours wandering around the village. Along the River Oise, over an arched stone bridge, and through a garden where cheerful gold tulips soaked up the sun. They’d foregone a proper lunch and stuffed themselves at a patisserie instead, where Bradley had discovered Colin wasn’t a fan of creamy French butter - which was basically yellow perfection on a plate, as far as Bradley was concerned - but had no qualms about making a sticky pastry even stickier by drizzling it with loads of honey.

They'd headed to the market next. Bradley lost Colin to the cereals and grains aisle early on. After adopting opinions on flax lost its entertainment value (Bradley was anti-, he’d decided, and if anyone wanted to know, he could tell them why), he’d drifted off to see all the other foods the world had to offer. Every time he circled back, Colin had been turning some granola something-or-another over in his hands, frowning in concentration, like if he just got it the right way up, the label would suddenly stop being in French.

Five takes in, half an hour of being stood on the opposite side of the room from Colin, and Bradley can see that same look of concentration on Colin’s face, etching worry lines that the makeup artists will despair of. With so much talent required on set today, the actors are all being tightly wrangled, and Bradley knows Colin hasn’t had a chance to sneak off and do his communing-with-the-spirits routine. It must be killing him.

Bradley casts a wary glance up at the nearest row of lights. They appear to be in proper working order, and lit at a nice, normal, non-blinding wattage. So far shots must have been showing up on film correctly, then, no over-compensation for unnatural shadows necessary. Not like the other morning, when everything had ended in that brilliant white flash, glass slicing through the air like a thousand tiny swords.

Colin hadn’t gone to the crypts that morning, either. 

Something cold stirs in Bradley’s stomach. All the people in this room, so busy, so focused on their jobs. So unprepared for anything beyond the here and the now.

Bradley begins to count them, every last one. He has to. As the number rises, he clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking. His fear isn’t just for Colin, not anymore. His _responsibility_ isn’t just to Colin.

It’s to them all.

When Jeremy calls "Action," Bradley manages to walk forward six paces like he's supposed to, and put on a listening-to-Uther expression like he's supposed to. The actual listening part, though, that’s the tricky bit, and someone’s shouting “Cut!” before Bradley even realises that the cue for his line's gone whizzing by. On the next take, Bradley does at least get his mouth open at the right moment, but then he stumbles over the first word, and it's all downhill from there.

Back to his mark. Deep breath in, slow breath out. 

Colin's stood against the far wall with Angel, a serving pitcher in his hands. Even at this distance, Bradley can tell he’s rubbing his lips together the way he does when he's nervous. A feeling surges through Bradley that he can’t define; it may be admiration, but it may just as easily be resentment. Colin's been dealing with this for days - or maybe weeks, Bradley realises that he doesn't even _know_ \- and Colin hasn't been mucking up takes. If anything, his work has been closer to flawless than ever before.

And that’s it. That’s the key. The only thing Bradley can control right now is how well he does his job. All he can do is keep his head down and try to get through this take, and the next, and the next. That’s the quickest way out of here for everyone.

It even feels like it’s working, for a little while. One clean take after another goes in the can. Bradley starts to fantasize about being done by lunchtime and going to shoot somewhere nice and sunny in the afternoon.

In other words, he makes the silly mistake of starting to hope.

+

Colin flinches in-shot for no apparent reason. He apologises quietly and profusely.

Ten minutes later, the sound guys have taken to wearing frowns and muttering about “residual feedback on the recording.”

Thirty minutes later, Anthony and Bradley have been asked to “Try it a bit louder, please” so many times that they’re on the verge of shouting every line like they're in front of a crowd at Wembley Arena. No-one behind the camera seems to consider this to be anything other than a sane and proportionate response.

Bradley imagines softly-layered whispers, an ever-shifting stream of French. The creepy soundtrack piped into the crypts, that’s what he’s thinking of, and he suddenly wonders if some wily castle administrator had quietly organised that to cover up a problem in the first place. Tourists starting to think they’re hearing things? Well, then. Let’s give them something to hear.

But maybe it's not like that at all. Maybe it’s screaming and moaning, or the clash of metal, or the groan of the last bit of air leaving a body. Bradley has no clue. The sound guys may know, behind their headphones, and he’s quite sure that Colin does. He can probably hear every sound or every word, and if there _are_ words, will end up biting the inside of his lip bloody trying not to reply.

Bradley glares over at Angel. If Colin looks like he’s focusing on his character, she’ll let him. She’ll let him sink right down into himself, when the last thing anyone should do now is let him be alone.

For his trouble, Bradley gets treated to a rather rude gesture from Angel in return. Lovely.

His fingers itch, and not merely from the urge to give Angel the two-fingered salute. Last night, he and Colin had hung out in Bradley’s room, enjoying their grocery spoils and playing video games. Colin was more of a mad lucky button masher than a good Playstation strategist, but that just made him even more of a joy to beat. “Less time reading books, more time honing your skills, young one,” Bradley had advised, and Colin’s eyes had crinkled up like Bradley was absolutely hilarious.

The thought of Colin going back to his room to sleep alone, suffer alone, had been more than Bradley felt able to bear. But the word _stay_ had felt like such a big, heavy thing, and so he'd kept on playing, and playing, and saying nothing at all. Until Colin had leaned back against the bed, head lolling to one side, and the word slipped out on a breath, easy as anything.

On Colin’s nod, Bradley had switched off the telly, then the lights. 

They’d got about four hours’ sleep in, most of them with Bradley’s hand resting against Colin’s side, the result of a fairly deliberate accident designed to alert Bradley the instant Colin’s breathing changed. The second something began to go wrong.

But nothing had. A night on his watch, and all had been calm.

Now, in the castle, in the light of day, Bradley not only wishes he were close enough to see how this current battle is affecting Colin - tight lines around his eyes, probably, whiteness to his lips - he wants to press his palm between Colin’s shoulder blades and feel the way he draws every breath. He wants to circle his fingers around Colin’s wrist and know the stuttery beat of his pulse.

When Colin startles wildly, ruining another take, Bradley knows it must have got bad. It must have got very, very bad.

Jeremy brushes off Colin's apology. "That take was rubbish anyway. Anthony, Bradley, a little louder, please?"

Someone hands Bradley a glass, and he takes a long, cold swig of water. Have the ghosts - if that’s truly what they’re up against - decided to try ruining the actors’ voices rather than blowing any equipment to bits? If this keeps up, he and Anthony will have nothing left to give, and Bradley doesn’t understand why Jeremy’s letting that go on. They can’t possibly be creating the sort of product post-production will be able to work with. 

Are the crew being drawn into the fight subconsciously? Are they digging in their heels because they feel like there’s territory to be lost or won? It felt like that they day the lights exploded. It’s the only thing that makes sense. 

But today there are other actors in the scene besides just Bradley and Colin, and some of those actors have enough experience and clout to feel like they can speak up. Before they can run the scene again, Anthony clears his throat. "Jeremy, I can't help but wonder-"

Everything happens at once.

Colin darts forward, a startling blur of motion.

There's a noise like the floor opening up, like an earthquake, like the end of the world, and Bradley instinctively dives to his left, away from the sound. Whatever it is, he doesn't want to be anywhere near it.

His ears ring. His knee hurts like hell. A gritty dust settles on his skin, in his hair. Beside Bradley - _right_ beside him, right where he and Anthony had been standing - there’s torn fabric and a broken pile of masonry. One of the hidden statues had slammed down, stone upon stone, hundreds of pounds of impact.

Colin’s in front of him, white-faced, breathing hard. Still taking stock of all his aches, Bradley begins the stiff, unsteady climb to his feet. Thinking that Colin may be about to help him up - and that the strength of Colin’s fingers would feel good - he reaches out a hand, the words "I’m fine” on his lips. But he’s reaching out to air. Colin’s already gone, lost in the crowd.

There’s a hand on Bradley’s shoulder. He doesn’t care who it belongs to. Shaking it away, Bradley takes off at a run.

Once again, the set has descended into chaos. Bradley pushes out the door and pounds down the corridor, ignoring the pain in his knee and a half-hearted shout from an A.D. trying to herd all the talent safely away. With Colin in his sights, he digs deep for a burst of speed. He can't let Colin disappear into the crypts, he _can't_ , and it's with a wave of relief that Bradley's fingers close over Colin's shoulders. He pulls him against the wall just short of the door. 

Does Colin see Bradley, or just an obstacle in his way? His eyes are flat and hard. It's difficult for Bradley not to recoil, seeing Colin’s anger so close like this, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. He tells himself that the anger isn’t for him, and maybe not even for the ghosts, because Colin is probably turning it all on himself for not preventing Bradley's near-crushing by statue. Without a word, Colin suddenly dives left and nearly slips away, but Bradley catches him with a tight arm around his waist and all the air comes out of Colin with a grunt.

Immediately, Bradley realises the mistake he’s making by pinning Colin in, trying to overpower him when he’s already feeling desperate. So he draws back a little, turning his bruising hold on Colin's hip into a loose clasp of his hand, and says, “Colin. _Colin_.”

Nothing.

Uncertainty crawls in his gut. Is Colin even with him now? Or has Bradley already lost him to whatever waits on the other side of that door? He curls his other hand round the back of Colin’s neck, beneath the knot of Merlin’s neckerchief. “Talk to me first. Just talk to me. _Please_."

They're so close that when Colin wets his lips, Bradley hears the small, moist sound it makes. “Why?” His voice is so rough, so jagged, it's like it's been dragged through glass, and Bradley flinches. Colin presses on. "I’m just going to walk through that door. Why do you want to stop me?”

Blood rushes in Bradley's ears. Colin’s fingers are shaking, and so are Bradley’s; he squeezes tightly, not knowing whether he's trying to calm Colin or bolster his own courage. This is it. This is the moment, now or never. “Because I know. All right? I know.”

“What do you know?”

“Enough.” 

“Enough to know you think I’m mental?” Colin’s voice is detached, eerily steady, but his control doesn't extend to his body. Long, insistent tremors run down his spine, through his limbs. Maybe this is what shock feels like to the touch.

“ _No._ ” Bradley draws in a breath. “The opposite. Enough that I know you’re not. Colin, it’s not safe in there, I -”

A low, guttural sound tears from Colin’s throat, and Bradley shifts the hand at Colin’s nape down between his shoulder blades, and pulls him in. It’s instinct, and there’s an agonizing second or so while he worries whether it's the right one before Colin drops his head to Bradley’s shoulder.

Hard. And does it again, and again.

Bradley’s been doing a fair job of not letting himself think about just how close he’d come to being crushed by that statue. Six inches, and it would have shattered the bones in his ankle; two feet, and it would have crushed his spine. But Colin had to watch it happen, Colin had to _see_ the statue fall, see Bradley underneath....

If the tables were turned, Bradley wouldn’t be able to put it from his mind for a moment. Just like he can't stop seeing that mist pouring into Colin. It's there whether he's awake or asleep, whether his eyes are open or closed.

Colin grinds his forehead furiously against Bradley’s shoulder, neck rolling from side to side with the motion. Bradley wants to cradle Colin’s head and make him _stop_ , but maybe Colin needs the physical outlet too much. It might be all that’s keeping him from breaking away.

Even so, it probably won’t be long now before he does.

“I know it’s not safe out here either, I _know_ ,” Bradley says. He means to sound calm, but it’s not happening; he’s too agitated, his voice is shaking. “But what’s in there, what it's doing to you -”

"Is nothing. I can still do my job, and that's all I need to be able to do 'til we leave France." When Bradley starts to protest, Colin lifts his head and talks over him, voice so harsh he doesn’t sound like Colin at all. "Can you do your job with a crushed skull, Bradley?"

“I don’t know,” Bradley says, fear and frustration pouring out, “can you do yours if you’re out of your mind?”

Colin jerks back, slipping through Bradley's hands. His jaw is clenched, his eyes dark. He looks furious, betrayed, and worst of all, resigned, as if part of him had been waiting for this all along. “So you do think I’m mental.”

“ _No_ ,” Bradley all but shouts, throwing up his hands. “I’ve seen them with you, it’s not just - just take a paracetamol and have a bad dream, they’re in your fucking head, and it’s got to _stop_.”

Silence. All Bradley can hear is the thundering of his own pulse; he wonders if, in the world that he's deaf to, if the ghosts are laughing at him. Not that he can tell from looking at Colin, Christ, Colin is entirely the master of his face when he wants to be. He's standing entirely still, expressionless, and Bradley can only wait to see what he’ll say, what he’ll do.

The moment stretches, unforgiving. Everything down here is: the stone walls, the floor, the shadows, whatever waits beyond that door. There's no mercy in any of it. Nor would there have been, long ago, when the life they keep twisting into entertainment was real.

When Colin moves, walking forward, Bradley's heart slams against his ribs, marking every step. He halts just a foot shy of the doorway and says, "Seen?"

Bradley chokes on the words he needs to say, then he forces them desperately past his throat before Colin can move another inch. _Mist, blue, wrong. Threatening. Wrong._

At first, a small, flickering blink of Colin’s eyelids is the only reaction Bradley gets. And then he turns away from Bradley, positioning himself on the threshold with feet pointed straight ahead. His intention is clear. “You see them now?”

“No.”

He’s through the doorway, one step into the crypts. “Now?”

The desire to drag Colin back is overwhelming, but Bradley daren’t risk it. In this moment, it’s impossible to imagine his touch making things any better. "No -"

"Maybe I need to be in the middle of the room?”

This time the instinct is too strong; Bradley reaches out as Colin takes another step, snagging Colin’s sleeve. Colin turns his head enough to meet Bradley's eyes, and lets Bradley hold him in place; Bradley takes that for the gift it is, and knows what he has to offer in return. He swallows hard. "I only saw them when I filmed you. I only saw them on my camera.”

There’s a lightning flash of fury in Colin’s eyes. Except it’s not just fury, it’s _surprise_ ; Colin hadn’t expected that breach of trust from him. But he would now. He always would now. 

"You'll show me,” Colin says.

Bradley nods.

"Shame you didn't show me before," Colin says, before going where Bradley can’t follow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many thanks to AlbyMangroves and Capriccio! <3

Things are quiet in the van on the way back to the hotel. It's late, and everyone is tired, but there's more to it than that. There's a heaviness in the air. It's clear everyone's still thinking about the accident even if, mercifully, they're no longer talking about it. Bradley's had his share of hugs and shoulder-punches and people saying _good job it missed you, mate_ ; he doesn't need any more, particularly not with Colin folded into the seat beside him, temple pressed to the darkened glass.

However angry Colin may be, he seems to have accepted Bradley as his shadow. That's good. Bradley’s stayed at his heels since they walked out of the crypts. He can’t imagine being anywhere else.

At the hotel, they pass silently through the lobby and into the small lift, where the cool fluorescent lighting throws a bluish cast on Colin's skin. Whether that’s better or worse than the death-white he’d been sporting before, Bradley’s not altogether sure, and he's glad when the doors open and they make their way into the corridor. Colin’s following him now. He stays one step behind Bradley all the way to his door, and waits while Bradley keys them in.

It's embarrassing how long it takes Bradley to dig the camera out of his duffle bag, how obviously he's tried to bury it. "Please," he says, the word spilling out as he holds the camera out to Colin. " _Please_ sit down."

Outside of a television script, it's the first time either has spoken to the other since the crypts. Colin already looks so unsteady, and Bradley vividly recalls how shaky he personally had felt as he'd watched the footage Colin’s about to see - Colin _really_ needs to sit - but he still regrets the words the moment they're out. Now that Bradley's asked, Colin may stay standing just to be contrary. God knows Bradley himself probably would.

But once again, Colin proves just how different he is to Bradley. He sinks down onto the bed before pressing play. 

It's excruciating, watching Colin view the film. He's deliberately angled himself so that Bradley’s stuck looking at his back, taking in the tight hunch of his shoulders and the stiff line of his neck. But Bradley has never been more impressed with Colin's control. He doesn't make a sound, and the only movement is in the hand holding the camera. It's shaking.

Bradley wants to reach out and steady him. He can't.

The footage ends. Colin clicks the camera viewer shut, and the sound echoes horribly in the quiet room. He bows his head. The silence digs into Bradley with barbed claws, and he's dying to say something - anything - to banish it, but he can't speak before Colin does. He needs to hear _Colin’s_ thoughts, framed by him, unaffected by anything Bradley might say. But this is Colin. Who knows if he'll ever say anything at all?

There's only one thing Bradley can do. He waits.

What tears out of Colin at last is not words, but a jagged, choked sound. Bradley moves closer, but his instincts are all wrong: "I can't handle you looking at me right now," Colin says, lacing his fingers behind his head, dragging his head down to meet his knees. 

"I'll leave," Bradley says at once, although it's the last thing he wants to do. "I'll go -"

"No." Colin's rocking back and forth. " _No._ You leaving is not going to help.”

"Then I'll close my eyes.”

Colin laughs, harsh and ugly. "Grand, that’s grand,” he says. “Bradley James is taking the piss. The world is just as it should be.”

“But I’m _not_ ," Bradley bursts out. "I know I fucked up and I’m trying to make up for it, so I’m closing them now, I’m still here but you can pretend I’m not if you want -”

“That’s the last -” He breaks off. "I don’t want to be alone because I know that I won’t be, that they’re -”

Colin’s voice is spiralling higher and higher. Bradley's eyes are squeezed shut, but he imagines Colin fisting his hair, digging at his scalp.... He reaches out, and his hand hovers in the air for what feels like an eternity before Colin’s cold fingers latch onto his own. Thank Christ. He shifts his grip and moves to sit next to Colin on the bed.

Colin breathes out rough and unsteady, and Bradley listens to him in the dark.

He doesn’t even consider breaking his word. Opening his eyes. He thinks about how Colin goes down into those crypts essentially blind every day, unable to see what’s really happening around him - _to_ him - and feels sick.

“Listen,” Bradley says quietly. “They may be there now, but they won’t be forever. And you’re not going to be alone with them.” With his free hand he finds Colin's shoulder, then the nape of his neck, and tugs at him until somehow their foreheads are pressed together. “I want them to know that. I want you to know that. This isn’t just you. This is us. All right?”

He feels it when Colin nods, the movement shifting his forehead against Bradley’s. Bradley's touching Colin’s skin, breathing Colin's air, and he's not going anywhere. There's another way to get his point across; he wants to try it, and so he does, tilting his head until he finds Colin's lips, soft and a little cold under his own. 

He takes it slow. Bradley’s ready to pull away if Colin doesn’t want this - it can simply be a seal of his promise, and that’s all - but it quickly becomes clear that Colin wants more than that.

The kiss turns hard in an instant. Colin pulls at Bradley, curling a hand around the back of his neck, dragging him close. It’s almost as if he’s trying to breathe Bradley, _become_ Bradley, and Bradley’s just as desperate to make Colin feel him, to make those bastards in his head feel him, to let everyone know Bradley is here to stay. He surges into Colin’s mouth, and Colin opens to him easily, groaning in the back of his throat. 

Bradley’s staking a claim, and it feels right, because Colin so clearly wants him to. His long fingers are gripping Bradley’s hair, pulling he and Bradley tightly together, like Bradley’s heat and breath will chase all the ghosts away.

Colin isn't holding back. He isn't hiding. Bradley wonders what a first kiss with him might have been like in any other circumstances - tentative and soft? Shaky hands and hesitant lips? Would Colin have tried to slip away, would Bradley have known how to coax him to stay? 

They’ll never know. It doesn’t matter. This is Colin, stripped down to the bones.

They kiss until Bradley's lips are slick, until Colin's cheeks are warm beneath Bradley's palms, until they're both gasping for air. Bradley pulls back when he has to, simply to breathe, and Colin follows the movement, burying his face into the hollow beneath Bradley's jaw.

Feeling that, feeling Colin burrow against his skin, Bradley’s wracked by an uncontrollable surge of protectiveness. His eyes slip open. Palming Colin’s back, he draws him further up onto the bed, where the pillows are soft under their heads and the long line of Colin’s body fits neatly up against his, chest to stomach to thigh. 

He’d never known how that would feel. He’d never quite let himself imagine it; doing so would have felt at best like a liberty, at worst an invasion. How could he dwell on those lean swathes of muscle, those pale sweeps of skin, not knowing whether or not Colin would welcome the thought?

But now -

Colin’s mouth finds his again, and Christ, Bradley’s glad to be found. This kiss is fierce from the beginning, Colin's lips meeting Bradley's with bruising force, and Bradley responds in kind. His hands roam down Colin's back, one settling on a narrow hip, another coming to rest in the dip of his spine, just above the waistband of his jeans. It would be so easy and so _good_ to flatten his palm and press Colin hard and close, eliminating any last whisper of distance between them. Bradley’s hard and getting harder, and he's not the only one; he can feel the long roll of Colin's cock against his thigh. Colin sucks on Bradley's lower lip, a long, slow pull, and it takes everything Bradley's got to keep his hips from surging up in response.

In the part of his brain that's still capable of coherent thought, it feels like that would be the wrong thing to do. Rutting up against Colin - that would be taking, and Bradley wants to give.

But, as always, the problem lies in knowing what _Colin_ wants. Even like this, with Colin's lips on his and Colin's hands clutching at his back, Bradley's not sure exactly what Colin's looking for, how clearly he's thinking at the moment, or what he might regret later. So he follows Colin's cues. Right now Colin's into kissing, clothed kissing, and that's doing it for Bradley, all right. Colin's lips have always looked soft, and they _are_ soft, but they're also wild and passionate in ways Bradley had never let himself imagine.

They're _too_ good. Colin kisses his way down Bradley's throat, open-mouthed and needy, fingers twisting in Bradley's hair, and Bradley can only gasp and hang on until he can't even do that. He jerks back, because his hips are stuttering of their own accord, driving hard against Colin's groin.

He can't really blame them. They're only taking orders from his cock.

It's throbbing in his jeans, desperately swollen and heavy, and what he needs to do, what he really, really needs to do, is excuse himself to the toilet where he can rub one out with dignity, before the problem resolves itself in a much messier way inside his clothes. Except he can't do that, because that would mean leaving Colin alone. 

He settles for an awkward shuffling movement that draws his hips even further back and his cock out of the danger zone. It’s not graceful, but it works.

Colin lifts his head, and Bradley can feel the weight of his gaze travelling down his body. "Hey," Colin whispers, voice gravelly and low, gesturing with his hand. "I could. Yeah?"

The word _please_ flashes through Bradley's head like lightning, and he barely manages not to whimper it aloud. His determination to give and not take is sorely tested as Colin's strong, slim fingers hover in the air above his crotch; he's already nodding furiously and fumbling with his zip before a decent excuse to give in surfaces in his mind.

But it’s not just an excuse. It’s the truth. If he says no to Colin now, rejects what he’s offering, Colin will swallow that pill down swiftly and silently, cured of ever reaching for Bradley again.

After that, it’s simple. Easy. Colin’s palm is broader than perhaps Bradley would have thought - if he had ever let himself think about it - and when he cups Bradley through his boxers, Bradley’s cock leaps happily up to greet him.

Colin rubs Bradley through the fabric till it’s slippery and wet, while his mouth works warm and sweet along Bradley’s jaw and up behind his ear. When he finally pulls Bradley’s cock free from the boxers and pumps him good and hard with his fingers in a ring that’s both slightly too tight and just right, the edge comes rushing up to meet Bradley like the pavement after a fall.

He rolls onto his back, stunned silly, gasping for air. The colour's high in Colin's cheeks, but his expression is ridiculously composed. He raises his hand, looks at it consideringly, then wipes it on the hem of Bradley's tee.

"Manners, Morgan," Bradley says, barely bottling a laugh. He rolls back into Colin in an attempt to turn his shirt into a sticky mess as well; Colin traps his knee between his thighs and grinds down on it, flushed and wearing a grin that Bradley has to kiss away.

He still can't quite believe this is happening at all, but if it can happen like this, when they're being silly, when they're just themselves, then maybe it can happen for a long time to come.

+

Later, in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, nose pressed to the nape of Colin’s neck, Bradley whispers, “Can you tell me what you say to them?”

There’s a pause. Colin sighs; Bradley can feel the breath escape him. “I beg, mostly.” Wordlessly, Bradley runs a hand down Colin’s arm, slow and soothing. “I ask for their patience. Tell them we’ll be gone soon, that we’ll do right by their home….” 

“Their home is a tourist attraction. You’d think they’d be used to sharing it by now.”

Colin shakes his head, shifting against the pillow. “Don’t think they mind people coming in to _look_ at the place. But the way we’re using it, glorifying a British king? When most of them died fighting the English? Yeah.”

“Ah.” He hadn’t thought of it like that. Probably should have. “Right. Bit of a sore spot.”

Out in the corridor someone shouts, and a door slams. Colin tenses, the lines of his back tightening where they’re pressed to Bradley’s chest, then exhales softly. “So I tell them - I say, I know you’re angry. I’m listening. You don’t have to take it out on everyone else…. Sometimes they promise not to. Sometimes they keep their promise.”

“And sometimes they lie,” Bradley says quietly. 

A strangled, twisted sound tears from Colin’s throat, loud in the hush of the room. "Yes. They lie. And you -” Colin’s tense again, shaking. “You're the figurehead. The target. The most English one of all."

Colin’s concern shouldn’t settle so warmly in Bradley’s stomach, not when it’s tearing at him like that, but it does. It does. Bradley sighs, partly for effect, but mostly because the real target is blindingly obvious, and only Colin in all his ridiculous self-effacement could miss it for so long. “Morgan,” he says. “The show's named after you.”

There's a thoughtful hum. Not agreement, but not quite disagreement either. “You think I’ve been giving them what they wanted all along?”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Bradley drawls, by which he means, _Obviously, you dolt._ Anyone else would’ve broken a long time ago. Within a week. Maybe within a day. Only Colin, with his determination, and his work ethic, and his bizarre _Colin-ness_ could possibly have held out like this. “It has to end,” Bradley says abruptly. “It has to end tomorrow.”

Colin huffs a laugh. “And how’s that supposed to work?

"Well, I don't know _yet_ ", Bradley says, "but tell me where in northern France you're going to find a better pair of geniuses when it comes to strategy, planning, and all around trickery than us. Go on and tell me," he insists, as Colin begins to shake with silent laughter in his arms, "so I can go on and call you a liar."

_Is_ it laughter? He hopes that’s all it is. Bradley breathes against the soft, vulnerable skin of Colin’s neck and thinks about tomorrow.

__+_ _

__Filming ends for the day. They hide._ _

__By rights, it’s the sort of thing that should be part of some grand lark: they’re in a narrow wardrobe in one of the furnished bedrooms on the castle’s upper storey, pressed together in an awkward jumble of limbs, Bradley’s shoulder smashed up against the door, Colin’s bony knee jabbing his thigh. Earlier, they’d taken refuge in the downstairs lavatory, perching in neighbouring stalls with their feet up; had remained perfectly silent, in no danger of laughing for once, while Angel yelled from outside the door, “The van’s leaving without you pair of idiots! I suppose that’s what you want!”_ _

__When they were certain the film crew was well and truly gone, Bradley and Colin had slipped out of the gents’. But they still needed to avoid the castle employees until Pierrefonds was closed to tourists for the evening and locked up tight with them on the inside. Thus, the wardrobe._ _

__Thanks to an unexpected bout of clear weather, they’d spent the day knocking out scenes in the relative safety of the main courtyard rather than filming indoors as planned. That was one stroke of good luck. They could do with a few more._ _

__“I should’ve been more prepared for this,” Bradley whispers. “I should’ve been paying more attention to their closing procedures all along. Why did I never think of spending the night in the castle before? I’ve let us both down. I feel I should apologise for that. ”_ _

__After a moment, Colin remarks, “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you.”_ _

Bradley shrugs, something of a feat in the tight space. “May as well try,” he says, although that’s not really what it’s about. It feels good to be finally be in this with Colin, after all the worrying and the watching, and most of all, it feels good for Colin to have _let_ him in. This entire thing is completely mad and they’re about to take a running leap and throw themselves into the madness headfirst, but they’re going to do it together, and whatever may happen tonight, that feels right.

__He wants to reach for Colin, lace their fingers together and squeeze. It means contorting his arm and wrist in some fairly unhealthy ways, but he does it, and the answering pressure from Colin’s fingers is altogether worth it._ _

__It’s not as if there’s anyone else to turn to. Approaching any member of the production staff would’ve been like volunteering for a visit to the headmaster’s office, a place Bradley became intimately familiar with over the course of his education, though not by choice (Colin, he suspects, never saw the interior of one unless it was to be given a handshake and some sort of award): disbelief, anger, rebuke, and the label of “unprofessional troublemakers” would have swiftly followed._ _

__Granted, they may have brought some of that reputation upon themselves._ _

And it’s not like they have deep connections to the French paranormal community and an exorcist on speed dial. Interviewing a string of mediums and psychics and ghost hunters in their hotel - or in some darkened bistro, for that matter - is right out. They don’t have time. They don’t know how to tell a trustworthy ghosthunter from a fake - well, Bradley could go in armed with WikiHow, and there’s a chance Colin might be able to sense one’s authenticity somehow, or the ghosts rattling around in his head might, which wouldn’t necessarily be a good thing. Also, there’s the little matter of running the risk of the kind of publicity that’s last thing they - and _Merlin_ \- need. 

__But more than all of that, Bradley can’t imagine Colin sharing his story with a stranger. It’s still hard to believe that he’d shared it with Bradley._ _

__He’s been trusted, and it’s an honour._ _

__Eventually, the lights flicker off in the room beyond the wardrobe, but they give it another quarter of an hour, just to be safe. Then quietly, oh so quietly, Bradley and Colin move into phase two._ _

__Tonight Bradley’s not using James Bond for inspiration. Tonight he and Colin are Ghostbusters._ _

__“Who ya gonna call,” Bradley whispers, and hums a bit of the theme tune to psych himself up. Turn this creeping through dark corridors they’re embarking on into a power walk - all right, no, better make that power creep, because when the heel of one of Arthur’s horrible toe-pinching boots rings against the stone floor, the sound nearly sends Bradley jumping out of his skin._ _

__Soft feet. Tiptoes._ _

__They descend the first staircase, passing through deep wells of shadows. The castle is menacing by night, all hard angles and unforgiving stone, and ground they’ve trod time and time again during filming feels suddenly dangerous, hostile. This is not their place. Every step they take brings them closer and closer to the centre of that truth._ _

__The ghosts are waiting._ _

__But they’re Ghostbusters. Can’t forget that. Bradley tries to throw a little swagger into his creeping, make it a bit cocky, embrace the Peter Venkman - that’s definitely who he is tonight, Venkman was always his favourite. Natural smartarse? Check. Skeptic turned unwilling believer? Check. Not to mention the one who ends up with Sigourney Weaver, which, hey, there’s Colin’s role. The one who gets possessed in the course of supernatural events. The one Bradley is as obsessed with now as he was back then as a small, tow-haired, film-watching tyke._ _

As they pass through the dim glow of a security light, Bradley steals a glance at Colin. His face is blank. A sharp, sick chill jabs through Bradley’s stomach like the point of a spear. It doesn’t have to mean anything, he tells himself, breathing against the fear. Colin is the master of his own face, and if he weren’t schooling it now, Bradley would _really_ have to be worried….

__But this is the last staircase. What if the ghosts have sensed change in the wind? What if they’ve quietly launched an attack of their own -_ _

__He’d lost Colin’s hand somewhere along the way. Bradley grabs for it blindly now, panicked, and chokes down his relief when Colin squeezes back and knocks against Bradley with his shoulder._ _

__He’s fine._ _

__He’s going to stay fine._ _

__Their ghostbusting equipment leaves something to be desired. They’re sadly short on proton packs and traps; they have a video camera each, plus a large tin of salt that Colin and his wiles had coaxed from Liliane in catering, because the collected wisdom of the ghosthunting sectors of the internet said it was a good thing to have. And they’ve got one particular skill they’re banking everything on._ _

__At the foot of the stairs, Bradley and Colin catch each other’s eye. Square their shoulders. Face the entrance to the crypts._ _

_Action._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to AlbyMangroves and Capriccio for helping me bring this one home <333

The spooky lighting effects and soundtrack of whispery French voices are gone. Bradley remembers them fondly. Anything would be better than this.

Their mobile phones offer up a small halo of blue light, but it’s nothing in comparison to the deep darkness that surrounds them. It _is_ enough to let Bradley see Colin’s face, and the way Colin’s swallowing down his nerves - literally - with jerky little bobs of his throat. Their phone light illuminates part of the nearest tomb: there’s a statue stretched along it in flowing robes, propped up on one elbow, its smooth, blank face turned towards the door. 

Half of the light goes out. 

Bradley whips around. It’s a character breach, he knows that, but he can’t keep himself from checking on Colin…. But it's all right. They’re not under attack. Not yet. Colin’s simply tucked his phone away beneath the waistband of Merlin’s trousers, freeing up his hands for what online crackpots and every episode of _Supernatural_ ever had assured them was without question step one: drawing a salt circle around themselves for protection.

It’d be nice to feel even marginally safer. Bradley will pretend like he does; the practise will come in handy if he ever happens to end up with a guest role on that show. Of course, if this whole thing actually works, there’s a distinct chance Bradley’ll end up as one of those internet crackpots instead, yelling his opinions on ghosts and the hunting thereof for the whole world to see. Screenname: _theyseemebustin_. 

Colin straightens up, leaving the salt container on the ground by their feet. That’s Bradley’s cue.

“Good evening, gents and ladies!” He lets his voice ring with assurance, projecting it defiantly out into the dark. “Bit of a confession to offer you tonight, I’m afraid. Goes like this…. Guess what? We were playing you lot all along.”

Bradley holds a pause. Lets himself feel his feet, anchored to the earth, and the straight, strong line of his spine. It's the same as when Arthur stands in front of his father, or his knights, or some magical enemy: Bradley imagines himself immovable, and he is.

“Here’s the thing. You may not have realised it, but myself and Colin are Ghostbusters. And we’re here to end this.”

He expects... something. He’s braced for it. Bradley’s skin is crawling, and while it’s possible that’s due to the ghosts, that their newest form of attack is making his body feel like it’s being trampled by tiny ant feet, it’s probably just his own physiological reaction to issuing threats to a pack of dead fourteenth century knights.

So what’s happening? Are they ignoring him and turning their attention on Colin instead? “Stay with me, Colin, tell me what they’re saying to you,” Bradley whispers. 

“They’re not.”

“What?”

“They’re… quiet.” Colin sounds surprised, confused, and deeply wary.

Then maybe Bradley’s confused _them_. Good.

“You think you own this place,” Bradley says to the darkness, “but you’re wrong. And you know it.” He wants to move, pace, but he can’t. His feet have to stay firmly rooted in the circle. “That’s why you stay down here, isn’t it? In the oldest rooms. With the oldest stone. Where there are still a few relics of your time. You know that the castle up there,” he jabs a finger toward the ceiling, “isn’t yours. The world’s gone on without you.”

As he speaks, sadness washes through him like a wave. Is it his own? Or are the ghosts making their first foray inside his head? No way to know. But for the very first time, Bradley finds himself feeling sorry for the ghosts.

“Even if we actually thought we were capable of it, I wouldn’t want to do an exorcism on them,” Colin had said, back in the safety of the hotel bed, displaying what Bradley had thought of at the time as batshit insane levels of empathy. “We’re the interlopers. It’s their home.”

It feels less batshit now. Maybe growing up in Northern Ireland as he did played a role in Colin’s understanding; maybe he would always understand on levels that Bradley couldn’t touch. But sadness is lingering in the back of Bradley’s throat, and he thinks maybe he's starting to get it.

He imagines how Arthur might feel, woken in a future that wasn’t his. How ineffectual, how frustrated. How desperately he might want to assert some kind of control. 

Arthur would never do this. But he would burn to do _something._

“I caught you with my technology, did you realise that?” Bradley raises his video camera, secure on its strap around his neck. “Right here. Yeah. I already have a piece of you. And when he fires his camera up -” he jerks a thumb towards Colin, who’s already lifted his camera, perfectly in sync with Bradley as always - “when we _cross the streams_... you’re going to be trapped forever.” He takes a steadying breath. Ghostbuster Bradley owns this room, and his voice never shakes. “So here’s the offer: Leave us and all the people we’re with alone. Have yourselves a nice holiday. I hear the Riviera's lovely. And French, you’d probably like that.”

It’s a good thing he never stopped bracing himself. 

The ghosts do not take the offer well.

A cold wind whips through the room, dashing at Bradley’s face and raising the hairs on the back of his neck. In his hand, his phone sizzles and pops, an acrid, electrical smell hitting his nose as the screen goes dim. The casing is burning hot and he drops it in a hurry. Beside him, Colin’s scrabbling his phone out of his pocket, hissing as he flings it to the ground. Bradley notices the smoke rising from their video cameras a second later, and those are the next to go, landing on the stone floor with twin cracking sounds.

It should be pitch-black in the crypts now, with the light from their phones completely snuffed out. Bradley only wishes it were. Because what he's seeing - without the aid of any camera lens - is that mist, blue-white and unearthly, seeping out from the walls and the tombs. It’s here. 

It’s coming for them.

“You -” Bradley’s voice fails him. He tries again. “You know how we wondered if they might be stronger at night?”

“Nahhh.” Colin’s clearly making an effort to sound normal, but there’s a tremor in his voice. “That’s not it. It’s the classic ‘stronger-because-you’ve-cheesed-it-off’ scenario.”

“Let’s not argue,” Bradley says, swallowing. “Let’s call it both.”

Back in that hotel bed - which Bradley misses with such a deep and burning passion that he has to assume teleportation is _not_ going to be making an appearance on the list of fictional-concepts-gone-real; if it were, he’d be opening a portal right now on the strength of wanting alone - back there, Colin had declared that any confrontation they might provoke would have to take place at night, when the castle was empty and no-one else would be at risk. Bradley had wanted to disagree, but he couldn’t.

Instead, he’d touched Colin’s neck gently and said, _Remember. This is valuable too._

Colin had brushed that aside. _It’s like smoking a hornet’s nest,_ he’d said. _You do it in the evening, yeah? When they’ve all come home? That’s how you get them all._

And Bradley hadn’t been able to disagree with that, either. If the plan had even the slightest chance of working, they’d need to play their show to a sell-out crowd.

But as it turns out, Bradley’s past self was a right idiot. His future self will forever and always strongly disagree with anyone who suggests confronting powerful supernatural forces at night on their own territory. Anything to avoid moments like this.

There it is. Something he’d never wanted to hear again. The screeching, unmistakable grind of stone on stone. 

Bradley’s as tense as a wire, ready to fling himself and Colin out of harm’s way, but then he realises -

This time, the statues aren’t falling.

They’re walking.

So _that’s_ what it feels like for a throat to close up in terror. Interesting. Something Bradley can add to his actor’s toolkit, assuming he and his career both survive the night. The statues are advancing with blank, expressionless faces, the floor trembling under the weight of their echoing footsteps. Some had been sculpted bearing arms, and unfortunately they appear to know exactly what those are for; they raise their stone swords high, ready to deliver crushing blows. 

“Right, okay, right, starting to have my doubts about trusting our lives to something I sprinkle on my food.” Bradley grabs Colin’s hand. “Let’s go.” He’d been spouting bullshit with that speech about the ghosts being somehow compelled to stay down in the cellars, but it was logical bullshit that fit the facts as they knew them. Plus it dovetailed nicely with his sudden overwhelming need to _run_. “...Colin?”

Colin’s hand is freezing. His eyes are wide and unfocused.

He’s gone.

And Bradley - Bradley begs like he never has before. _Colin, Colin, please Colin, let’s go. Hear me. It’s Bradley. Don’t listen to them, listen to me. You and me, Colin, stairs, I can’t climb stairs without you -_

It’s a grotesque parody of all the times Bradley felt like Colin was wearing a mask. There’s nothing there to read. No sign of Colin. No sign of life. And it’s already too late: he should’ve hefted Colin’s skinny arse over his shoulder and made a run for it in that very first moment, but now they’re surrounded. Salt circle or no, the ghosts got what they wanted.

“All right, all right, fair enough!” Bradley shouts. “We tried to trick you. We’re very sorry. But you know what? You’ve been no better! He came to you in good faith, time and time again, and you messed him and all of us about however the hell it suited you.” In the face of weaponised statues and an unearthly mist, words are all Bradley has. The sand’s running out of his hourglass. He’s got to make each one count.

Colin had begged. Colin had appealed to their mercy.

Bradley will shame their honour.

“Is that how you fought for France? Because if it is, the history books and the legends, they’ve got it all wrong, haven’t they? People talk about chivalry when they talk about medieval knights, but as far as I can tell, you lot’ve had centuries of good press that you don’t deserve. You’ve assaulted us. You’ve used deceit, you’ve used lies. You’ve targeted him, and that’s the worst of it, because no-one wishes you less harm than he does. No-one. He put himself at your mercy, and you’ve offered him none.

“You should be better. _Be better_.”

Even though Bradley hadn’t consciously been reaching for Arthur’s authority and conviction, it resonated in every word. It simply had come, easy as breathing, when he spoke of what was true and right.

There’s no sound. No movement. Not even the beat of Bradley’s heart or the desperate rush of his breath. The mist, the statues, his own body - they all simply _aren’t_. Later on, he’ll think about this moment, turn it around and around in the corners of his mind, most often at night, in the last dark moments before he sleeps. He’ll wonder if it truly happened the way he remembers.

He’ll wonder if he was given a taste of death. 

Colin’s eyelashes flutter. Sound comes rushing back: Bradley hears himself gasp. His knees buckle. 

He’s surrounded by frozen blocks of stone.

“What were you saying,” Colin croaks, “about stairs?”

 

+

 

The climb is a challenge. One foot in front of the other, one eye on Colin - who’s still shaky, and trying to pretend like he isn't - and one eye constantly looking back over his shoulder. Bradley doesn't think about where they're going. He tries not to think much at all. Just step after step after step, until eventually their feet lead them back to the bedroom they'd used as a hiding spot earlier. Bradley closes the door behind them.

“Come on, sit down,” he says quietly, guiding Colin over to the bed. Moonlight streams in through the windows, landing softly, comfortingly on the coverlet. It helps.

Colin sinks down with a sigh. “I'm fine,” he says a moment later. There's an annoyed wrinkle between his brows, like he knows his response was off-beat, and he should have done better.

Rather than press the issue by offering his own, less optimistic judgement of Colin's well-being, Bradley simply nods. Sitting down next to Colin, he runs his hands down Colin's arms, catches his fingers. “I'm afraid we're stuck here for the night. If the security system’s still working, we'll set off all sorts of alarms if we open an outside door. And even if it's not -”

“Our phones are burnt to a crisp, and where would we go around here in the middle of the night. Yeah.” Colin's voice is too even. Bradley wants to take him far, far away.

He lifts a hand to Colin’s face instead, gently touching his cheek. “Truth, now, how do you feel? Do you feel -”

“Sane?” Colin’s lips twitch into something that’s more a grimace than a smile.

“Oh, like I would ever go around calling you _sane_ , Morgan,” Bradley says. It's a reflexive attempt at transforming that grimace best way he knows how, but Christ, it's far too soon. Bradley’s ready to throttle himself when, for a flicker of a moment, the corners of Colin’s mouth turn up. He stifles the urge to cheer and says, “Safe.That’s what I meant. Do you feel safe.”

Colin nods. “Yeah. I think... it felt like, like something lifted. Like they heard you. You were amazin’.”

“Eh. I had a lot of righteous anger built up.”

“You knew what to do with it.” Now Colin's staring down at coverlet like replica historical bedding is the most fascinating thing on earth. “But I shouldn't have agreed to this. Knowing -”

“Colin.”

“ - knowing I wasn't strong enough.”

“Right, yeah, you've only been carrying us all on your back for weeks.” Bradley shrugs. “That's all.”

This extremely logical and correct point gets ignored. “Knowing you wouldn't leave me down there.” He lifts his head. “You should've left me.”

There's really only one possible response. Bradley reaches out in front of Colin's face, closes his fingers around empty air, and tosses his hand over his shoulder. “I'm throwing out that rubbish,” he announces. “And there better not be more where that came from, because then I'll have to throw you out as well, and we’ll see how you like being face-down in a tip.” He flutters two fingers. “Little legs waving in the air.”

There's a hint of a smile at the corner of Colin’s mouth, like it’s sneaking in without permission. “Little?”

“Skinny,” Bradley amends. “You win, accuracy police.”

“I’m thinking I’ll be having good company down there, as much rubbish as you talk,” Colin says, and finally, _finally_ , the smile takes over, stretching from one side of his mouth to the other.

“You wound me.” Bradley's already leaning in, because the only proper way to greet a smile he’s been so desperate to see is with a kiss. He pulls Colin close, cradling his head - that weird, wonderful, precious head - and kisses him with all the sweetness of relief and all the hope in his heart. It’s a nice, slow kiss, and they don’t stop at one; Bradley captures Colin’s mouth over and over, running his hands down Colin’s back, soothing away the little shivers Colin obviously can't control while ignoring the tremors in his own hands.

He can let himself believe they're safe. He can.

It’s nothing like their very first kiss. There’s no fierceness in this, no desperation. Colin’s mouth moves softly against his own, a gentle, shifting pressure, and Bradley thinks that must be a good thing, it must mean that Colin’s relaxing, moment by moment, heartbeat by heartbeat. He slides his hands across Colin’s lower back to lightly grip his hips, and Colin moves his hands up, thumbing gently at the nape of Bradley’s neck, palms warm against his throat.

 _Warm_. That’s a good sign, too. 

This feels good, the slow drag of Colin’s lips and the warm weight of his tongue, and it's not long before Bradley’s cock is stirring - it would take a lot more than a little run-in with the supernatural to keep it down. He tries to ignore it, to do his part to maintain their slow, gentle pace, but his fingers tighten at Colin’s waist and his breath rasps in his throat.

Colin sighs into his mouth, then draws away and rests his cheek against Bradley’s. His breath whispers in Bradley’s ear. 

It's unsteady. Almost as shaky as Bradley’s is. Bradley's heart pounds.

Sitting side by side like this is getting difficult, because Bradley's cock is becoming increasingly interested in all these goings on, and more than that, it’s _remembering_. How Colin’s hand felt wrapped around it, all those lovely fingers snug and slicked up just right, moving at just the right pace…. His cock’s a dreamer, that’s what it is, and Bradley’s paying the price. Namely, he's really starting to ache.

That only gets worse when Colin’s lips find his again. He's good at this, _they're_ good at this, and the bit of Bradley’s brain still holding on to coherency thinks it makes perfect sense. Of course they’d be every bit as in tune like this as they are in front of a camera. Why wouldn't they be?

_Camera._

Bradley jerks away. “Shit, I'm sorry, I just realised what I was looking at. There’s no light blinking on it, so it’s probably busted -” Christ, he hopes it’s busted - “but there’s a camera up there in the corner.” 

Colin's shoulders twitch up. It’s clear he wants to hunker down between them, but he manages not to go full turtle. “Well,” he finally says. “If it's working, I suppose we just made somebody's day more interesting.”

“If. I did my best to convince our phantom friends that cameras were evil, remember. And they certainly did a number on ours.” Bradley doesn’t say what else he’s thinking, which is if any cameras in the castle _are_ still functioning, he and Colin getting handsy on the bed will probably make any interested parties feel more gah-look-away awkward than what-did-those-two-steal? suspicious about their castle sleepover stunt. “Just in case, know anything about disabling a security system? Every strategy I know involves hitting it with something hard.”

“Volunteering your head, are you?”

Bradley huffs. “It's disappointing, the amount of respect I don't get.”

Colin makes a show out of pressing his lips together and humming, as if heroically keeping something sealed away inside. “That's right, that's more like it,” Bradley says, trying to sound stern, but he’s fairly certain his delight seeps through. Colin’s taking the piss. It’s always a good sign when Colin’s taking the piss.

His mood begins making the shift from delight to frustration, though, when Colin - still humming - tilts his head back and stares pointedly upwards. Watching those lips is all very well and good, but Bradley would much, much rather get back to kissing them. “Oh, out with it,” he blurts, to Colin's evident glee.

There’s a long moment where Colin just sits there, lips parted, eyes dancing, not saying a word. Judging the exact second when he thinks Bradley is most likely to explode, probably, and Bradley’s remarkably close to it when Colin finally says: “Curtains.” 

And points overhead, meaningfully.

Oh. _Curtains._ The four-poster historical reproduction bed they’re sitting on comes complete with historical reproduction curtains.

From that very first day in the crypts, Colin's mood has acted as a barometer for Bradley in all of this. When he went quiet (quiet _er_ ), Bradley worried; when he went weird (weird _er_ ), Bradley openly fretted. Seeing him smile and joke is truly starting to convince Bradley that the ghosts have faded as a threat - and seeing him imply what he appears to be implying…. 

One swift yank on the curtains sends the bed posts rattling against the wall. And just like that, they're tucked away from the camera’s eye, together in the dark.

“This all right?” Bradley whispers. His eyes are adjusting to the shadows, which hopefully means Colin’s are as well. He didn't really think before he yanked. He doesn’t want this kind of deep, enclosed darkness to be a horrible reminder of the crypts. 

Colin presses closer. “Now it is,” he murmurs, before sliding his lips against Bradley's for a kiss.

Well then. If kissing makes it all right, then kissing is definitely something Bradley's prepared to do. It’s not long before their bodies mirror their lips, shifting and sliding together, and the best kind of gravity sends them tumbling back onto the mattress together, heavy and close. Which has an almost instantaneous effect on Bradley's cock - if it was a dreamer before, the one it’s lost in now, snugged up tightly against Colin’s body, is almost painfully good. The heat, the pressure, the _possibility_ makes Bradley squirm. 

But he’s not going to come in his costume, and he’s not going to be the first one to come twice in a row. No. He’s going to do better than that. 

Bradley says, “You know how everyone’s always, “Oh Colin, sweet Colin, perfect Colin, let’s all spoil the bleeding hell out of Colin?’”

Colin's laugh is soft against Bradley's throat, and his lips brush Bradley’s skin. “Don’t think I’m familiar with it personally, actually, but I feel like you may have mentioned it before?”

“Not familiar,” Bradley mutters, “I'll not familiar you,” while his eyes roll so hard Colin can probably hear them. People in _space_ can probably hear them. “God help me, but I'd like to spoil you in ways they never have and never will. That acceptable to you? Got any questions? Concerns? Complaints?”

“Curiosity,” Colin says. He sounds like he's smiling. “Bradley James’ definition of spoiling.”

“Ah, yes. See, I was thinking -” Gently, he rolls Colin over until he’s flat on his back, then works his way down to touch his lips to the bulge in those baggy linen trousers. “I was thinking, maybe some introductions are in order.”

“Oh - oh.” There’s a gratifying hitch in Colin’s voice. “Yeah, they should get to know each other, that'd be grand.”

Bradley slips his way back up Colin’s body to kiss him slowly, drawing on his lower lip, making it a promise of things to come. The way Colin tips his head back is an encouragement for Bradley to go deeper, and Bradley does, sliding his tongue over Colin’s, letting the press of his body against Colin’s mirror the weight of his tongue. When Colin breaks away, pulling in air, Bradley buries his face in the crook of Colin’s neck.

He hikes up Colin’s shirt just a little. Bradley’s not - he’s not _stalling_ , precisely, he’d just like to get Colin really properly worked up before his mouth gets down to the main business, because… well, while his mouth has been engaged in a few conversations of an… _intimate_ nature before, this will be its first time having one with a cock.

He knows what _he_ likes, though. Colin’s a book of weirdness bound up in a weird cover, but he can’t be _that_ different when it comes to this, surely?

Bradley is suddenly deeply afraid he’s just answered his own question. 

“Listen, you should know, I take direction as well off-set as I do on,” he says. This sends Colin shaking with laughter. “Shut up, Morgan, I’m taking off your peasantwear here, you’re going to get yourself strangled,” just makes it worse. And all right, it’s possible one of the reasons Colin is a director’s pet is he’s quicker to realise what they really want and give it to them. But Bradley _is_ good at taking direction, thank you. He’s just less good at intuiting vague shit.

When he’s done wrestling with Colin’s shirt, Bradley shucks his own tunic. Instinct says Colin will be more comfortable if he isn’t the least-dressed person in the room. He's rewarded by the warmth of Colin’s hands; Colin’s long fingers have a sure grip, and he digs them into Bradley’s shoulders as Bradley drops kisses down his chest. 

Pausing at Colin's waist, Bradley lifts his head and lightly traces the outline of Colin's cock through his trousers with a finger. He'd not had the chance to appreciate it fully last time, but he won't make the same mistake again. Bradley moves up the shaft and over the tip, and good, _good_ , Colin's cock demonstrates a delightfully predictable reaction. It leaps up happily to greet him.

Encouraged, Bradley cups Colin's balls as he circumnavigates his cock again, time with his mouth. He kisses his way up one side and down the other, firm presses of his lips interrupted by a long pause over the head, where he just rests softly, open-mouthed, until Colin's cock is twitching and his hips are shifting against the bed.

When he pulls back, sitting up on his knees, Colin's cock is arcing up high, his loose trousers letting it rise easily. How the hell is Bradley ever going to survive Colin wearing this costume on set again, with _that_ image living in his head? Colin's cock looks so heavy and so hard and so perfect that he can't resist wrapping his hand around it and jerking up.

“You're -” there's a gratifying hitch in Colin's breath - “you're trying to get me to ruin my costume, aren't you.”

“Oops,” Bradley says insincerely, touching the small damp spot that's already formed with a fingertip. “Reckon they’ll shout at you for a change. Can't wait to see what that'll be like.”

“I'll just tell them you borrowed it.” Knowing that Colin a) would and b) would be instantly believed has Bradley changing tack immediately.

Hooking his fingers, Bradley pulls at Colin's trousers and boxers, careful not to snag Colin's cock on the way down. Colin's hips lift helpfully, and soon he's completely bare: long, strong legs, trim waist, lean torso, and heavy cock.

It steals Bradley's breath for a moment. Not just the picture Colin makes, although damn, it's a pretty picture, but the trust and openness that's behind it. Last time Colin had stayed half-dressed, and been the one to take himself over the edge, in the end. This time, he's all Bradley's.

Bradley shucks his own clothes, both to keep Colin company on the nakedness front and to keep himself out of trouble with the wardrobe department. He flings both his costume and Colin's to the foot of the bed, figuring there’s safety in distance at this point, and keeps their boxers to hand for eventual clean-up duty. Bradley was in the Scouts. He knows about planning ahead.

Then he's kissing Colin's warm inner thigh, soft hair and skin under his lips, then lightly, gently, over his balls. That earns him a nice breathy sound from Colin, and Bradley lingers, being sure to give each equal attention before sliding up to nudge the tip of his nose against the base of Colin's cock.

Blindly, he reaches up to find Colin's hand, then settles it firmly in place at the nape of his own neck. “Now don't be shy, Morgan,” Bradley says, hoping against hope that the criminally polite Colin will actually listen, and not let himself be given the world's worst blowjob in some attempt at sparing feelings.

But there's no place for that kind of negative thinking. No, Bradley is going to be _awesome_ at blowjobs.

Kissing his way up the shaft seems like a good way to begin. Get his bearings. Colin's long and he's thick, and while Bradley likes to consider himself up for a challenge, trying to deep-throat _that_ doesn't seem like the wisest place to start. 

And Colin seems to like the kissing. His cock’s plumping even more under Bradley's lips, and every little pulse and twitch is one Bradley's proud of. He especially seems to like Bradley’s lips dragging slowly up his length, and the flat of Bradley's tongue laving over the head of his cock, where it peeks above the foreskin; _really_ likes that, if the moan that stutters out of him is any indication, so Bradley keeps it up. Gets his hand into the act, curling his fingers and pulling up, jerking Colin into the heat of his mouth. 

Every little sound Colin makes, every broken sigh and gasp for breath, encourages Bradley to keep going. Maybe some other day he'll try to be a showman; see if he can take Colin to the edge and keep him there, make it last. Today, he just wants to make it good.

Contrary to instructions, Colin's hand is being uselessly shy on Bradley's neck, falling limply into his hair. But his hips are being a lot more cooperative; they're rocking upwards, not too hard for Bradley to take, but seeking more, and more, and more. 

Bradley gives. 

He’s a little surprised by how much he's enjoying the feel of a cock in his mouth. It's the weight, and the hard press of need beneath intimately soft skin, and it's the fact that his own cock can't stop dreaming: it's wrapped up in the attention Colin’s is getting, it's there for every taste and every stroke, and it _wants_. 

But more than that - more than any of that - what Bradley finds he’s loving most is the connection. Not wondering what Colin's feeling, not guessing, but _knowing_. By the way blood pulses in his cock and his body draws up tight and choked sounds slip from his throat and he grows harder, harder, harder -

When Colin’s fingers twist in his hair, Bradley flattens his tongue, hollows his cheeks, and sucks like he knows what he's doing. And look at that, apparently he _does_ , because Colin jerks hard in his mouth and there's come everywhere and - okay, in future Bradley will be more elegant about the dismount, but for now, spitting into a pair of those ready-and-waiting boxers gets the job done.

Panting a little, Colin rubs the back of his hand across his forehead and lets it fall back at his side. “Well. At least it wasn't my costume you ruined.” 

“Oh, were those yours?” Bradley asks innocently.

“Come here,” Colin says, pulling Bradley up for a kiss. Whether Colin likes tasting himself on Bradley or is just tolerating it, Bradley can't really tell, but the kiss is enthusiastic, and Bradley rolls onto his warm body eagerly, cock twitching happily as it nudges against skin.

“I'll -” Colin starts to slide down the bed, but Bradley shakes his head and captures his lips to hold him in place. 

“No, this is good,” Bradley whispers, pressing his body hard against Colin's. Feeling Colin’s thighs against his thighs, his flat stomach against his cock, his chest against his chest. Every inch of him beneath Bradley, warm and safe. 

He rubs himself against Colin's stomach, dragging his cock forward and back, forward and back, blood pounding between his legs. He’s leaking, leaving trails of slick on Colin’s skin, and then suddenly Colin's hands are on him, one cupping his arse, one wrapped snugly around his cock, just beneath the head. 

Colin squeezes. Tightly at Bradley’s arse, lightly at his cock, encouraging his hips to rock up and his cock to drive forward, sliding over the soft skin of Colin’s stomach and into Colin's perfect grip. He's in love with Colin's hands; the strength in those slim, agile fingers. The surety.

Colin's not letting go. Colin's got him.

A better view, that’s what Bradley needs. His eyes have adjusted well enough to the dark behind the curtains, so he pushes up on his hands and lets his head hang low between his shoulders to watch his cock push shiny and wet through Colin's fist. His breath is growing shorter and shorter - he hears it as if from somewhere far away - Bradley sees himself stiffen and jerk, digs his fingers into the coverlet and comes on a shout.

Colin smiles up at him, warm and soft in the dark, and the sweet edges of it turn ever so slightly wicked. He pulls Bradley down, plastering him into the sticky mess he’s made.

“Menace.”

“Just sharing the experience,” Colin says. There’s a laugh in his voice that Bradley wants to bottle up and keep forever. 

“Good.” Bradley kisses Colin's forehead, thinking of the days of pain and fear he'd kept locked away in there. No more. No more. “Share it all.”

 

+

 

“We rode in on the other van,” Bradley says, before the words that are so visibly stewing in Angel's brain can make it out of her mouth.

This line, delivered with a perfectly straight face, has already worked on half a dozen people this morning, while Bradley and Colin - pros at sneakiness and subterfuge that they are - blended seamlessly into the throng of cast and crew setting up in the castle’s grand entrance hall. Angel’s expression suggests it has met its match.

“Yeah, we both know what that’s a load of, since we both know you never left last night, but whatever you say.” Angel lifts her hands. “Enjoy it, boys, I'm admitting defeat, all right? I just want to know how you did it.”

“Did what?” Colin’s face, with its perfectly furrowed brow and pursed lips, is the very picture of angelic confusion.

“No idea, Morgan. She’s not being terribly clear, is she?”

There’s a sad sigh from Colin, followed by a headshake of disappointment. Angel punches Bradley in the arm.

“Oi!”

“How did you move those statues?” Angel hisses.

Pretending he has no idea what she’s talking about is one of the sorest tests of Bradley’s acting skills - and his heroically-managing-not-to-gloat skills - that he’s ever been through. “Statues?”

“Oh, please. You don't have to pretend like you don't know. Everyone’s talking about it.” She's staring at him, laser-focused. Colin, apparently, is somehow exempt from this grilling via eyeball. “A couple of the sound guys saw, before the Pierrefonds staff kicked us out of the cellars for the day. One took a picture. _How did you do it?_ ”

Bradley sighs. Next to him, Colin sculpts his expression into a perfect blend of wistfulness and regret. “Oh, Angel,” Bradley says. “You’ve no idea how it pains me, but we simply can’t take credit for something we didn’t do.”

When the world beyond the castle windows had begun to lighten to a fuzzy pre-dawn grey, Bradley had shaken Colin awake. They’d opened the curtains on the bed, straightened up the coverlet, pulled their rumpled costumes back on, and slipped downstairs.

There'd been time for one more trip to the crypts, before the castle opened to the crew and the people of _Merlin_ came pouring in. One last check to see if the ghosts truly had retreated. And, well. If they had - and Colin, opening his eyes after a long, silent moment, seemed to believe that was the case - they’d certainly left a mess behind. 

“Fuck me,” Bradley had whispered, staring around the crypts. The statues that had surrounded them with raised weapons and blank, terrifying faces were still frozen into attack mode, and showed no signs of returning to their former positions any time soon. He took a deep, fortifying breath, then placed his hand on one that looked slightly less murderous than the rest. The surface was a little rougher than he’d been expecting, and not quite as cool. Bradley tapped it with a fingernail, and it rang hollow. “Were they always made of plaster?”

Colin shook his head, eyes wide. “Maybe around other people? I don't know. Definitely not last night.”

“Fuck me,” Bradley repeated. “This is going to raise a few questions.”

“One or two, yeah.”

But maybe not quite as many as they might think, if this sort of thing had happened before. Bradley thought back on how unnerving he’d found those statues from the very beginning. Not the ones lying in silent, sepulchral repose on their tombs, but the ones on their feet, faces angled towards one another as if they’d been interrupted mid-chat…. He wondered if someone on staff - Bradley pictured a white-haired old man, gave him a pocket watch and a limp - would see this and immediately think, _Merde, not again._

“You two are genuinely, certifiably mad,” Angel says. “Did you find someone selling horror versions of them on the Internet or something? What did you do with the old ones? Hire a lorry and smuggle them out of the castle? Or are we going to find them, I don't know. Taking naps in the beds? Having a shit in the toilets?”

“Language, “ Bradley says, and Angel socks him in the shoulder. “Hey! Abuse!”

“If this production goes to shit because you two got yourselves fired or got us kicked out of Pierrefonds, I'll -”

“You don't need to worry,” Colin interrupts. “Honestly. None of that's going to happen.”

Colin must be thinking along the same lines as Bradley, then. That the Pierrefonds powers-that-be are busy organising a cover-up so that no major studios find out about the haunted cellar in this otherwise prime filming location, not placing blame.

“Like we said,” Bradley says, spreading his hands, “we can't take credit for something we didn't do.”

“Okay, well, if it wasn’t you, who was it?” Angel folds her arms. Her eyebrows are arched, expectant. She clearly believes - and normally she wouldn’t be far wrong - that this will be the sticking point, that Bradley won’t be able to stand the thought of giving someone else credit for his and Colin’s genius.

“Youths,” Colin says.

“Exactly!” Bradley snaps his fingers. “Mischievous French youths.”

“ _You're_ mischievous youths,” Angel points out.

“I'm Irish, though.”

“ _Anglais_ here, mate.”

“Incredibly annoying is what you are.”

Bradley nudges Colin, and Colin nudges him right back, leaving their shoulders pressed warmly together. “I don’t know, Colin,” Bradley says. “If she wants to know our mysteries, I think she'll need to prove she's worthy of our secrets.”

“Are you thinkin’ of something like a quest?”

“I'm thinking of _exactly_ a quest.”

Angel rolls her eyes to the heavens. Bradley's seen that look countless times now, and he loves it; not just because her frustration equals their victory, but because it's familiar, because it's _Angel's_. He's struck by a rush of affection for her, and for all of the people in this room: the actors prepping their lines, the sound guys setting up mics, the lighting crew, the folks tweaking hair and makeup, the directors and assistant directors making sure the world of _Merlin_ turned smoothly…. 

All the people he and Colin worked so hard to keep safe.

What he feels for the weirdo by his side is affection, too, but it's also something bigger, and deeper, and more complicated, sunk down into the marrow of his bones. And like the ghosts in the foundations, like the spirits in the stones, Bradley can’t imagine it packing up and leaving for good anytime soon. But he wouldn't want it to.

It's home.


End file.
